Splash
by Rhyolight04
Summary: Some of what John got up to while Sherlock was away (mostly canon compliant w S1& S2). Crossover with Ben Aaronovitch's Rivers of London stories; begins after Whispers Underground. Spoilers for first four books. You don't have to have read Ben Aaronovitch (John hasn't!) but you might really like to.
1. John Falls Into Dubious Company

Chapter One: John Falls Into Dubious Company

John stood once more on Westminster Bridge, wondering. Did it always have to be night? There were no stars or planets in the sky this evening. Traditional fog, at least the post-Clean Air Act variety. But he hoped she would come. He'd lain awake for hours, the past few nights, since the thought crossed his mind. He didn't really know the right people to consult; Mycroft, perhaps, but John could not make himself believe they might have a civil conversation about incorporeal powers—well, 'differently corporeal' powers. And he didn't want Mycroft's advice.

It wasn't born of desperation or a wish to end himself. Life was in many ways better than Captain Watson could have envisioned after invaliding out. He was still what Sherlock had made of him: living, functioning, smoothly walking and running (and shooting), sharper of gaze and more confident of conclusions (it meant he needed to be especially careful about the gun, Mycroft's special permit or no). The sorrow was a bearable companion these days, only rarely sharp enough to cut. But John felt no pull toward the horizon; the power that had made him run—Sherlock's energy—was gone from his life.

Perhaps the space his friend taken left places within him he'd never explored. Perhaps the loss of the mad scientist who made 221B into a pathology lab, or an alchemist's, left room for unquantified forces, unproveable effects; things from places other than the rational mind. It made him—John might have said of someone else—fanciful. The first time, that night last autumn when a woman had appeared—the right word, not 'walked up to him'—and told him not to despair, John had changed.  
>Once aware of a hidden current, he felt its waves more often: a new patient, who told him she'd been sent by the river; the look on Lestrade's face when he greeted a young detective from a different division; Lady Ty in the background while a television reporter interviewed the Member of Parliament for Greater London.<p>

So as the calendar year was ending he'd found himself remembering old words, and he sought them out, rereading books he'd loved long before. He did not speak them, was careful not to bind himself, but "…swear by the Living and the Dead, by the Past and the Future, by Memories and Hopes, that if a Vision comes begging at our door we will take it in and warm it at our hearth, …"

"In Life's name and for Life's sake, I assert that I will employ the Art. I will guard growth and ease pain… In the practice of my Art, I will put aside fear for courage, and death for life…"

And the less formal ones:

"I will take the Ring, though I do not know the way."

"I'm taking her back to my place, Jess. I can't just leave her.

"Whattya think? Want to join up?"

An impulse of his own: "Use mine—"  
>And the universes had answered all of them:"Fear not."<p>

So he went to the bridge again on the night the year would change, knowing he should not hope (he wasn't much about hoping anyway, anymore), not knowing what he would hope for, and he thought of the shape in his head that the woman had filled, and he watched boats chug past on the water beneath and hear people singing or laughing, as the old year passed like the water itself.

The air had warmed, changed, filled. John inhaled the scent of diesel and bananas, saltwater and coffee, chocolate and fish guts, fenugreek, cumin, chilis, fried fish and chips. Tidal flats, gardenia. "I don't come when I am called," she said, when he noticed she was there.

"I wouldn't want you to, Mother Thames."

"You're lonely."

"It's New Year's. Everyone is…no, they're lonely on Christmas. They're confused now. Waiting."

She waited, with him or for him. Time hung motionless, round, pendant, like the drop at the tip of a stony icicle. The moment of stillness was all he could have asked.

"Do you think I know the future, John Watson?"

"Maybe. If time is really like a river."

"And would I tell you? Deep waters run still."

"No one I trust seems to speak in straight lines." He shook his head. "Mother Thames. I want to ask you for something, but I'm frightened. Do you look after fools and children too?"

"Some of them. You know the rules: no boon comes without cost. What do you want to know?"

"I want to know… what I can do. Is there something I can do, for you?"

"Why, John Watson. You have surprised me."

He relaxed a little. "I hoped it wasn't too far out of line, to ask if there was something you wanted done. What I miss—one of the the things I miss—is being useful. I know I'm useful as a doctor, but there are many doctors. And though I half don't believe I've ever spoken to you, I thought—doing something for you would matter."

"I don't know how many years it's been since a knight offered the River his sword. Not just a knight, a captain."

John was pleased—even awed—by the wonder in her voice. But he'd also read enough of the stories to set limits. "I know it's dangerous to offer you too much, and I have oaths I must keep."

She was pleased by a display of common sense; not many saw through the glamour, and so not many were much use. "I would not come between you and your honour. If your art or Her Britannic Majesty call on you, you must obey, with my blessing. Your life is not your own to give me. And because you have offered, and been humble, I will not take what you have not intended to offer." She looked out down the sweep of the water, lost in brightened mist. "The solstice is just past. Until the next one, I may call on you. Does it suit?"

John had been thinking longer-term, but as she spoke he knew she offered a kindness. She took his hands and put them, palm-to-palm, between her own. "Do you know the words?"

"I remember some," he said. He cleared his throat. "I, John, do become your liege man this day, of life, limb, and earthly worship, against all manner of folk—"

"—Where your oath is not already given. And I do take your service, until Midsummer Day; my honour is yours, and yours, mine, and no evil shall prevail against us."

The air shimmered around them. John felt as though a wave rolled over him, neither air nor water nor anything he could hear; but his breath came easier. Mama Thames looked at him intently, raised his chin, and kissed him on the lips. She stopped before he could respond. "No," she said, "Not for me. John, go home, and go to sleep, and in the morning, go to work."

Before he could form a question, she had gone.

Late the next day, John was meeting Greg Lestrade at New Scotland Yard. Dinner, drinks, and darts. Greg was trying to get out of his office; phones kept ringing. Greg stood talking on the his desk telephone, tethered and impatient, looking suddenly wary at someone coming through the cubicles. It was the very young officer John had seen before, the one whom Lestrade had watched with a reserve he never showed another policeman: not uniform, but not senior to anyone. His skin was about the same shade as Sally Donovan's; his face was less unhappy. He carried himself with a sureness completely out of line with the way people tried to ignore him. He came past all the desks and stuck his head into Greg's glass house. Greg gestured at the telephone, unable to greet him; the young man shook his head.

"Dr. Watson? May I have a word?"

John followed his lead out toward the windows.

"I'm PC Peter Grant, it's an honour to meet you."

"Ah, thank you?" John wasn't quite sure what was going on. They stared at one another for a moment.

"Umm," said Grant. "Not easy to explain. I work for the dodgy end of Economics and Specialist Crimes Unit."

John couldn't recall ever meeting them; the Turner painting had been some other division, and the jewel thefts. They sounded as though they might be computer hackers. "I'm sorry?" he asked. "Have you decided we did something new wrong?"

"Oh, no," said Peter. "No. Less official. Some of our contacts told us—me—I might want to be in touch. Well, that you—Mama Thames?"

Comprehension broke over John, at least to some extent; he saw Peter's relief as it did. It was strange to hear that name from anyone; he'd half decided he had dreamed both his meetings. "Are you—part of her, ah, her organisation?'

"Definitely not," said Peter. "But I am liaison for the Met to, umm, the riverine community, if you can call it that. It's not like the—" he sighed. "Look, my department deal with things that don't make much sense outside of context where that kind of thing makes perfect sense. You seem to have signed on as a knight or something to the River, Effra wasn't clear. Does this make any sense to you?"

"I don't know an Effra." If John had expected anything, it would not have been from a police officer. But then he'd never expected it from Mycroft, either. "But you know of Mother Thames? Have you met her too?"

"Several times," Peter said. "I started with my unit after I interviewed a ghost about a murder; that's when I found out the Metropolitan Police have specialists in magical disturbances of the Queen's Peace. Paranormal, if you prefer. But not space aliens." He waited, John thought, to be told to piss off. John took pity.

"She didn't seem like that sort," he told Peter. "Magical, perhaps, but not disturbing the peace."

"You'd be surprised. Not directly. But you wouldn't like to see her angry."

"No," John said, "I wouldn't. Is she angry, often?"

"Not often, no." Peter hesitated. "What do you know of her?"

"I know that, twice, I've been standing on Westminster Bridge, and she has…appeared, and said some probably insightful things. I've met enough other dubious shadowy people to know that Mother Thames isn't like any of the usual kind. She answers thoughts before I've spoken them, which isn't completely unprecedented in my life…but it feels like different means from usual. I don't know what she is, but I know I needed…something, and she answered. I don't know what the hell to make of it, but you're here so I don't think it's just a psychotic interlude."

"No," said Peter Grant. "Not something you made up, but not something everyone's aware of. And on the whole, probably just as well."

"No, I wouldn't like people to be depending on a strange African woman to stop them jumping off a bridge."

"Were you—?"

"No," John said. "No. But I'm not what I would consider 'of sound mind', quite, either." He tried to keep his tone light, but a dead man on a pavement swam before his mind's eye, as it tended to.

"I'm terribly sorry for your loss, by the way. It's everyone's loss." Peter Grant looked at John like a real person: not a tragic hero, not a dupe. "I don't think he was a fraud. I'm sorry I think it's important to say so."

"I can tell that by the way you've spoken to me, but thanks. He wasn't a fraud…I haven't been in very good shape since last summer"—Peter nodded—"and the first time I met her, last autumn, I thought it was—I don't know, grief or exhaustion; but then I met a Lady Cecelia Tyburn-Thames at Mycroft Holmes's office, and he's not someone whom I'd ever think sees…well, fairies at the bottom of the garden. Neither am I. And you don't look like you are, either."

"I haven't seen anything with cute little wings wearing a bluebell on its head, but there's more out there than I had any idea," said Peter.

John nodded. "On New Year's Eve I saw Mother Thames a second time. I asked her if there was anything she needed done I could help with."

Peter Grant looked at him. "You couldn't just apply to be a Special Constable or something?"

"Lestrade's suggested that more than once, but no. Not all of us want to be police."

Peter nodded. "I never wanted to be a soldier. Any road, it's not my business, Effra was clear on that, but she thought I might like to know, and I thought you might like to know someone in consensual reality you could call on, if you need it. I rather hope you will."

"Consensual reality?" John asked. "Is that what the rest of us call 'the real world'?"

" 'The rest of _them_,' " Peter corrected. "You have a foot squarely planted outside that now. Effra said you had 'offered your sword' to her mother. Do you have any idea what you're supposed to be doing? In this context, I mean?"

"Not in most of them," John said. "Well. Not true. I'm managing real life well enough, but I volunteered—outside of it, I suppose. That's what I miss, I need that, and I didn't want to look for it in drugs or alcohol or— and Mother Thames came to me one night and told me I mattered."

"Most people matter," Peter told him. "DI Lestrade is the real thing, and I know you matter to him."

"I need to matter to myself," John said. "And after Sherlock…it just isn't working."

"And Mama Thames took your service."

"And I have no idea what that means, but I trust her more than Mycroft Holmes or the army."

Peter looked at him gravely. "Fan of Japanese movies?"

"Not so much."

"So the word ronin doesn't signify…knight errant?"

" 'Only a flesh wound?' "

Peter shook his head. "I think it means you should come and meet my sensei."

"Your what?"

"The man whose apprentice I am, Chief Inspector Nightingale. Come to the Folly and have dinner with us. Give us a call, but most nights are good. Unless a case has hotted up."

"I understand that," John said. Grant gave John his card, greeted Lestrade respectfully, and left. Lestrade looked after him.

"What did he want, John?"

"To invite me to dinner," John said. It seemed easier to leave out the circumstances.

"You have a talent, don't you?" Greg said to John. "Some sort of lighting rod."

"What do you mean? Are you going to warn me off?"

"I dunno; would you like an excuse? They're good coppers, they're just…"

"He said 'magical disturbances of the Queen's Peace.' "

"Creepy X-Files bastards, I try not to know. I haven't had to call them. I don't know whether Sherlock ever ran across them either, God knows what they would have made of one another."

"You're supposed to tell me that one day there'll be a djinn in the Albert Hall and Peter Grant will have put it there."

"What?" asked Lestrade.

"Nothing; sorry. But they're coppers like you?"

"Different department, same bosses. Not many of them. Plainclothes. I've never heard they were anything but good men. Just… not quite our type."

For the next few days, John went about his life. His nightmares had gone away again; probably not forever, but any quiet night was a good one. He did find himself drawn to walk along the Thames more than he had been doing, and the empty place on the bedroom wall where a periodic table had hung finally called out insistently enough he found himself at a poster shop, buying an old picture of the Embankment, streetlights light haloed in the fog along the river. He Googled 'ronin' and watched some Japanese cinema; the visuals were gorgeous, but he was profoundly grateful not to be Japanese.

Then his mobile, shrilling next to his pillow in the dark, woke him. He answered calmly and instantly, as though he had been waiting.

A woman's voice, not so deep as Mother Thames, still slightly accented—Nigerian?—but younger."Dr. Watson. In the River's name, can you come?"

That seemed clear enough. "Where?" he asked, pulling on his trousers.

"I'll text you the address. It will have to be a cab. Bring your medical kit."

He dressed warmly, semi-professionally; wondering if he would regret not wearing waterproof boots. The address was near the King's Stairs Gardens, on the south side of the river. For once, he had no trouble attracting a taxi as soon as he reached Marylebone Street, but it was still more than half an hour before John found himself alone in the streetlights at his destination. Nothing on his jacket to indicate that he was a medic, not that London's muggers observed the Geneva Conventions.

After a few moments he could hear a bunch of people trying to speak softly; he went toward the noise.

"Cursed thing turned on me," someone—male, Londoner, older than John—said. "Fuckin' _hurts_, sorry."

"Most people have enough sense not to tease them," a woman said. She sounded like the voice on John's phone.

"Ah, hallo? It's John Watson?" John called out, drawing near. Four or five people—it was hard to tell in the harshness of the street light and the shadows around it— gathered by the water's edge. Someone sat on the ground.

"Over here," said the woman. As John's eyes adjusted to the gloom he saw a black woman, slighter and younger than Mother Thames, her hair in tidy dreadlocks pulled back from her face; two or three other young people, and a battered-looking older white man, sitting on the round cradling his arm. There was blood; the woman was holding someone's t-shirt wadded-up against it, but she seemed calm. Nothing was dripping.

"I need more light," John said.

Someone sighed. "You have your phone?" asked Peter Grant. "Digital thermometer, tricorder, anything like that?"

"I left my phone in the car," John said. "It wouldn't be bright enough, really—" and someone behind him focussed an LED lantern on his patient.

"How's that?" asked Peter Grant.

"Good! Thanks. What happened here? Can we get your shirt off, sir?"

"I'm not taking off my weskit on a night like this—"

"Aelred, he needs to be able to see how badly you're hurt—" began one of the girls.

"Your sleeve's pretty much a dead loss as it is," John said. "I'll cut it? Fine." He was used to wounds; at least this man wasn't bleeding out from the abdomen. "Are you hurt anywhere else?"

"Bruise on my bum, I imagine. I think I twisted my ankle when I jumped back from t'river's edge."

"Your head's all right?" John pointed a penlight at the man's eyes and nearly dropped it. His eyes were light brown and the pupils were rectangular, like a goat's. But they responded to the light, and matched in size.

"It was, until you shone your damned light in my face."

"Aelred—"

"Sorry." The old man didn't seem sorry, but John had treated more recalcitrant people in his time.

"You can take the pressure off for a moment, miss—"

"My name is Raven; I am a daughter of Mama Thames," said the woman, carefully moving the wad aside. An artery spurted at them; Peter, John, and Aelred all said 'Fuck!" simultaneously. One of the girls giggled as Raven replaced the pressure.

"He needs an A&E," John said. "Can you move your fingers?"

The man wiggled them, carefully; it plainly hurt, but John was relieved to see that, too.

"Not going—"

"He won't go—" said one of the girls at the same time.

"He's not in the system," Constable Grant said. "He's not one of ours."

"Well, THEY need to—" began John, shocked.

"Doctor Watson, are you saying you cannot deal with an injury such as this?" asked Raven.

"No," John said, nettled, "I'm saying he could use better care than I can give him."

"Well, yours is what he will take," she said. "What do you need?"

It was not the battlefield. No one seemed to be trying to shoot at them. He had enough supplies for a skirmish, a firefight; this was only one man, with what looked like a messy gash most of the length of his left forearm. "Clean water, ideally hot; more light. Is there a surface, a picnic table anywhere nearby?"

There was a table not many meters away, it turned out, and the little party went to it. John laid out a sterile pad, big enough for the man to put his arm down on and for John to lean in, and someone produced an open litre bottle of water.

"Is it clean? Has anyone drunk out of it?" John asked, rolling up his sleeves and pouring antiseptic wash on each of his hands.

"Nothing in the water will hurt him, Doctor, I promise you."

"You've _heard_ of sepsis, haven't you? And I'll need someone else to scrub. Constable Grant?"

"I can't," said Grant. "I have to hold the light. Do you need the water boiling?"

"Just warm would be nice, is someone getting it from a loo—?"

"No, just a moment—" The water in the bottle glowed and then bubbled; the threaded part of the bottle-top melted sadly to one side. John stared at it as the water steamed. "Did you put a sodium pellet in there or something."

"Something," said Peter. "May be a bit hot, sorry."

"Olympia," said Raven. "Wash your hands as the doctor will tell you."

A slim black girl—about fifteen, John thought—put her hands out for antiseptic wash. "Get it in well around your fingernails," said John. "Good, they're not too long. Okay, gloves—" He laid out sutures and a clamp and the other things, and gloved himself. Olympia watched him, and did a credible job getting the gloves on while maintaining sterility. "Are you allergic to anything, Mr. Aelred?"

His patient looked at him without welcome.

"I want to give you something for the pain and you're going to need antibiotics." Aelred looked like a reasonably tidy homeless man, or a labourer from another era. He wore layers of ragged but serviceable clothing, and mud along one of his sides from sole to armpit—"Dragged along the bank. BY the arm—" announced his inner diagnostician.

"Morphine will be fine," said Raven. "He won't need antibiotics."

John stared at her. "Are you kidding?" She shrugged at him.

John jabbed his patient with a syringe. Aelred tensed, and then exhaled as the drug began to take hold. "More light now?" asked Peter.

"Yes, please. Okay, it's going to be a bit messy, you're not going to faint, are you?"

"I am NOT," Olympia said, with all the hauteur of youth.

"People do, just let us know, all right? All right, then, Ms. Raven's going to take away the pressure and I'm going to put your thumb on the artery, all right? It's going to feel like something alive—it is, yeah?—so don't be startled, and DON'T let go while I clean it up a bit—" John swabbed the undamaged part of Aelred's arm bicep clean with warm water and then with alcohol.

The next few minutes were messy and utterly absorbing—well, it seemed like a few minutes, but John's back and arms were tired when they could finally relax. He'd tied off the artery—a small one, fortunately—made sure the layers of muscle were touching the right other layers, and finally lined the edges of the wound back together, put a dressing over it all, and made an adequate sling. He tried to recall times in the army when he'd patched up civilians, unable to send them to anything he recognised as a hospital; but this was London, he could see the skyglow across the river. It felt wrong to be tending a wound like an unusually hygienic early Victorian. "No antibiotics?" he asked Raven again, just to be sure.

She shook her head. "None needed, I promise you. And he might not be allergic, but I doubt that you wish to monitor him."

"He should have someone one with him for a day or so; either the pain or the drugs will leave him dopey. And I'd like to check on it in the daylight."

The patient and the women all looked at one another, and John moved away; they needed a moment. Peter asked, "You're done with the light for now?"

"Yes, thanks," John said, turning around. He expected the young policeman's arms to be tired of holding up the lantern; but the light went out and even after John's eyes adjusted there was no lantern to be seen.

Peter saw John looking for it. "Yeah, magic, I'm afraid."

"Heating the water in the bottle, as well?"

"Yeah."

"Can you make tea?"

"I _haven't,_" said Peter, "but now that you raise the question…I don't know how my guvnor would feel about that, might be considered light-minded. On the other hand it's all about control and precision; he might approve."

"Well, it was a damned handy trick for this occasion, thanks. Could you actually boil it? I don't know how she can be so casual about sterility—"

"River water and River people," Peter said. "Well, 'people' in the wider sense of the term, anyway."

"Yeah. His eyes—" said John. "What…?"

"Do you really want to know?"

"I don't really need to know," said John, realising it was true. "He bleeds. Raven seemed to know he could tolerate morphine. Don't want more antibiotics around if they aren't needed. What bit him, though? I thought blind white alligators were confined to the sewers in New York."

"It wasn't blind or white," Raven said, joining them. "Or an alligator, as such."

"I am reliably informed they pose no threat to the general population," Peter said. "If this one gets a taste for blood, Raven, I hope you'll let someone know."

"We look after our own," she told him. "But if there's a hunt I don't imagine you want to miss it. You've no more sense than anyone your age, for all your powers." John wondered if Raven were all that much older than Peter; she didn't look it.

"You look after your own, but you got Dr. Watson out of a warm bed to help—"

"For the time being, he is our own, and it was a nasty bite. Aelred's a fool sometimes. Doctor, you have my number—call me later and we'll arrange for you to see him tomorrow."

"I can come to his home—"

"He's not entirely at ease with that; we'll meet you here."

"I'd like to bring him something for the pain—here's some pills for the next 24 hours—but it's not easy to prescribe narcotics for someone who doesn't exist."

She handed him her own NHS card, 'Marcia Ravensbourne-Thames'. "Don't think of it as fraud," she told him, as he copied her information. "It's fealty. Do you have any trouble covering the expense of all that?" She indicated the neatly folded bundle of biohazard.

"No," John said. "I've become surprisingly well-off." He hadn't wanted Sherlock's legacy, but Mycroft hadn't asked. No wonder Sherlock had never stinted on taxis.

She nodded. "Thank you for coming out. We'll try not to make it a habit."

"It's what I'm for," John told her, and meant it.

"Goodnight, then, both of you." Before he knew it John found himself walking away with Peter Grant away from the river.

"We're dismissed," said Peter, confidently. "Want a lift back to yours, or an early breakfast at ours?"

"It _is_ still early; I'll catch another couple of hours sleep," John said. "How did you happen to be there?"

"Believe it or not, I was giving Olympia a driving lesson. At least this time of night there's no much for her to hit. When she told me she wanted to come here, I stayed around to see she was all right, not that she needs my protection with her family."

"Who are they?"

"They're all some of Mama Thames's daughters." Peter unlocked his car and opened the door for his passenger.

"Some?"

"It's a very large river, after all."

"Who was my patient, come to that?"

"I think he's a troll," Peter said.

"And that means?"

"'I've no better idea than you do, really. I know someone at UCH who would greatly appreciate a chance at a blood sample." Peter glanced at the bundle of medical waste.

John thought about it. "I don't think we can, really. I can ask for permission when I see the patient next, though." He was surprised at the warmth in Peter's expression. "It's a fairly clear ethical question, surely?"

"It really depends who you ask," Peter said.

John went to his afternoon shift at Sarah's practice and filed a prescription for three days worth of moderately strong painkillers under 'Marcia Ravensbourne Thames'; the NHS had no problem with that at all, beyond a routine remark that he was now her registered physician. After a moment's thought John decided he did not, as yet, need to read her medical history (another question to ask if he saw her again). Scarcely five minutes later his phone rang.

"What have you done now, Doctor Watson?" asked Mycroft Holmes. They were on easier terms now that John understood the circumstances of Sherlock's death: that Mycroft and his brother had been working together against Moriarty, and Sherlock had given him permission to…John knew the word 'betray' was not accurate, but it still rankled. There _should_ have been some other way, the two most devious men (surely) in England against a single madman. He shook it off.

"What exactly do you mean, Mycroft?"

"Further involvement with the, ah, Thames family?"

"They needed my services."

"I cannot believe this will end well. Must you?"

"Why can't you believe it?" John asked. He reminded himself that Mycroft had truly loved his brother, and tried to quiet the voice that suggested the damage to Mycroft's political pride must have hurt just as much as what passed for his heart.

"Because they are not what they appear, and historically—"

"'Historically', Mycroft? Really the right word? You mean Tam Lin? Midsummer Night's Dream?"

"Of course if you insist of making an ass of yourself—"

"I've done it before. Mother Thames didn't seem like, umm, what I've heard of the Fair Folk. Nor your Lady Ty."

"I have been fortunate enough thus far not to have made the acquaintance of any seelie or unseelie courts."

"Are they real, too?"

"I have no information on the subject. Thank God. John, I mean regular mortals mixing with—" Mycroft hesitated.

"At least some of them bleed, and hurt. Still not altogether certain about you."

"Is Lady Marcia badly injured? I assume she was the reason for your nocturnal perambulations."

"You could stop surveilling me, you know. Couldn't you?"

"Not really," Mycroft said, neither sneering nor backing down. There was a heartbeat, where John didn't say that the game was over, and Mycroft didn't have to equivocate, and in the space John tried not to notice the sprig of hope that persisted growing in the broken place within him. They both sighed, hardly an exhale.

"You're not going to ask me the nature of my relationship with the Lady of the Lake? I assure you it's no having any effect of my understanding of constitutional monarchy."

"John, while I am delighted that your pawky sense of humour has recovered to this extent, you must resist casting your experience in the light of Monty Python. These are serious matters."

"I know that, Mycroft." John was always surprised when Mycroft showed any grasp of popular culture. "I offered Mother Thames my sword. Is that serious enough?'

Another heartbeat of silence. And another. John nearly felt concerned. "Mycroft? Saving the oaths I swore to the Crown and to, umm, Apollo Physician. And she only's only keeping me on until the summer. I guess I'm on probation. But I think I'm relatively safe."

He still had the feeling that Mycroft was dumbfounded, gob-stopped, horrified. "If you wanted a more demanding occupation I could have found you something in Military Intelligence," he said at last.

"I didn't want to be a spy," John said. And despite their détente he doubted he would ever want to be one of Mycroft's underlings.

Mycroft sighed deeply, indicating elaborate, world-weary exasperation; John could all but hear the wheels turning. He would have waited for Sherlock's train of thought to come to a complete stop; but Mycroft didn't deserve the courtesy. More than likely, John would be 'invited' to board it when it was least convenient.

"I enjoy our chats, Mycroft, but I'm working. Have a lovely afternoon and don't start any wars."

"Most of my endeavours are rather in opposition to that, Doctor, I assure you. Do be careful."

John met Raven and Aelred at the same picnic table late that afternoon, gathering a few strange looks from mums and toddlers. By daylight, the 'troll' was unremarkable: perhaps a homeless man, perhaps an eccentric with a taste for eighteenth-century workingman's garb and not washing more often than he needed to. The smell was noticeable, but not unpleasant like old sweat or urine; more like woodsmoke with a hint of pond-muck. He did have a lot of unruly hair—head, ears, eyebrows. And there was the matter of his eyes. John tried not to stare. Someone had removed the torn and bloody sleeve of his shirt and replaced it with a light, unfitted tube, slit to the shoulder, fastened closed by easily-undone buttons. "Nice work," John said as he unbuttoned them.

"Ah, she said the same of yours."

The wound was knitting well, no sign of redness or swelling. John had Aelred move his fingers again (the old man complained, but complied); barely seven minutes after his arrival, he was ready to button the sleeve up once again.

"Hardly worth your while," Raven commented.

"I rarely see anything heal this cleanly," John said. He never saw anything heal so free of infection outside of a proper hospital surgical procedure, and not always then.

"I told you," she said. "We look after our own. There are compensations for the way we are."

But HOW are you? John wanted to ask. Raven looked at him with irritating serenity and there was no danger of her telling him anything. Something to experience rather than explain, then. Charming. On first seeing her in the light, today, he had thought Raven was younger than he'd believed in the night. Now she seemed to share a portion of Mother Thames's agelessness. Was it her tilted cat's-eyes or her gravity?

"Mistress," Aelred interrupted their lack of dialogue, "since you're here, will you lay your hands on it again?"

"Most certainly. I thought Doctor Watson's little pills were doing all you needed?"

"Belt AND braces," Aelred muttered. He'd huffed when John gave him the prescription bottle, though he'd taken it quickly enough.

"Very well," said Raven. Aelred shifted a bit on the seat of the picnic table, laying his arm out. Raven, across from him and next to John, reached out to his forearm and gently, carefully, put one hand on either side of the stitches. They both closed their eyes; John grasped a sudden waft of coal and diesel, horses, hay and beer, machine oil and ink and glassware, as Aelred relaxed visibly, his massive gnarled frame settling into itself.

It was not by any means the first time John had seen 'healing hands', but it was the first time he could recall being pulled in. Perhaps it was just mirroring the relaxation of the two people? He found himself breathing deeply, accepting that the moment needed nothing from him. There were birds, and thin January light, and the table was solid. He heard Raven speaking to him.

"May I, Doctor?"

"Sure," he said, "Please." Raven turned and put both her hands on John's scarred shoulder. It was behaving well enough, as it did when he kept up with the exercises, so he was surprised when Raven's touch loosened an ache he hadn't known he had. Relaxation poured into him as though he'd swallowed a shot of Scotch, without the burn, without the dizziness. It was like the times he woke up warm and slowly, or falling asleep after heavy work and a good meal. Gradually the sensation lightened and he felt himself back in his body, driving rather than drifting, opening his eyes as Raven took her hands from his shoulder. She was looking at him, concern on her face. Aelred was gone; the sun had moved a bit farther west.

"You've had some hard times," she said. "Soaked it up like a towel."

John didn't bother to answer. "Thank you," he said. "That was, umm, good but strange." He moved his left arm and shoulder, trying to assess any difference.

"Strange for a healer not ever to have been offered healing."

"Not really," he said, thinking of the hospital in Afghanistan. From the doctor's end, and then as one of the wounded. "We tend to be materialists, and let the nurses and chaplains and social workers take care of the…other stuff. And your, umm, gifts are different, aren't they? I don't think we had any of your sort of people with us."

"Arghandab and Helmand don't trust foreigners, but I am sure they were among you. You wouldn't know if they didn't want you to."

"I suppose not," John said. "I don't think ordinary Londoners know you and your mother are among us, not most of us."

"I know ordinary Londoners with nearly as much healing ability as I or my sisters have—I cannot make Aelred's wound close and disappear, as I might if he were one of my relatives, but easing pain is within reach. Or yours, if you want to learn. It might be useful to you."

John twisted. "It might, but I don't really believe in that kind of thing." He hated to seem rude.

"Yet you use green mould and cowpox and spirits of wine and believe in tiny beings in the water that no one can see."

"I do. I don't doubt your gift." He flexed his arm again. "It felt good." It was not the time to discuss placebo effects, and he had had attractive women put their hands on him with remarkable effects (if not recently, and not on his shoulder, and…).

"But if I tell you it can be taught, you don't want to discuss the matter? Not very scientific."

"Are you daring me?"

"Perhaps. Why did you take this on, if not to become something more than you feel you are?"

"To be useful," John said at last.

"Well, this would be useful. And if it doesn't work for you, you have at least tested my hypothesis."

"Fair enough," John said.

"I'll send you a link," said the river goddess, and she smiled and left him.


	2. A Number of Impossible Things

When John next looked at his email, he had, in fact, a link to a reiki teacher's site in North London.

When he looked through his snail mail he found, among the bills and adverts and offers he didn't want, a hand-addressed envelope made of some paper his hands immediately recognised as Posh. John had received notes from Mycroft at times, usually when it was inconvenient for Mycroft to listen to him argue, but this was even crisper, and the return address—"The Folly, Russell Square, London, WC1"—seemed to be engraved. John found the paper knife and opened it: a single folded sheet of the same finger-caressing texture, written in dark blue fountain pen (how the hell had Sherlock been able to tell an iridium nib from, say, 14-karat gold?).

My Dear Doctor Watson, it read  
>My apprentice, PC Peter Grant, tells me he invited you to dine with us any evening of your choosing. While I second his invitation, its informality may have left you unsure of its sincerity. He has no idea how these things are done. If you would care for an informal meal this Thursday evening at 6:30, we would be delighted with your company. Our colleague from University College Hospital, Dr. Abdul Haqq Walid, will be joining us, so it need not be all be police conversation. I hope to have the pleasure of making your acquaintance.<p>

Yours faithfully,

(Chief Detective Inspector) Thomas Nightingale.

John was momentarily uncertain as to whether he should accept the invitation in writing, but he had no idea where his pad of Basildon Bond was; and it was far from certain the post would reach The Folly before Thursday. He phoned Peter Grant.

"Can you tell him I'll be there?" he asked, when he had explained.

"Certainly. He will be pleased, and so will Lesley and I—that's the other apprentice, PC Lesley May. Only she's on medical leave—" Peter hesitated.

"Nothing too serious?" John asked.

"Well, yes. I'm never sure whether I should warn people or not, but she had a rather horrible accident to her face so she'll be wearing one of those NHS masks."

"That must be difficult for her. But I've probably seen worse in Afghanistan; I won't stare."

"Thanks—at least you know how it is, then."

"I do," John assured him. "Umm, it's says 'an informal meal', but—"

"Yeah, I won't be wearing a tie but Nightingale will and Doctor Walid might be, depends on what he's up to that day."

"So, 'informal', 'but not as we know it'."

"No," said Peter. "Just think pre-war—the second one—and you'll probably be understanding him correctly."

"Is your boss that old?"

"He's certainly old-fashioned," said Peter, prevaricating like mad. "But he means well even if he thinks I'm dangerously modern, and he does want to meet you."

"Why?" asked John. "The river, or Sherlock?"

"The river; the army, as much as anything. He had an idea who Sherlock was, of course, from the papers, and you, but I know he'd never heard of your blog. Then again he hadn't heard of blogs at all."

"Not a technology buff, then?"

"Magic and computers don't get on, but I don't think he knew that before I turned up."

"But the Met use computers and mobile phones and—"

"Yeah. It's complicated," said Peter. "He's been sort of reclusive for a long time. Apparently there wasn't much call for the Met's only wizard. Or maybe there was and no one knew. He's teaching us about magic and I'm teaching him about the 21st century."

Right then. John found himself in Bloomsbury Thursday evening, bemused but open to detective chief inspectors who used magic but not computers, confusingly nondenominational forms of spiritual healing, and river goddesses, trolls, and something with fangs in the Thames. Peter opened the door just as John was about to knock. "Do you always do that?" John asked.

"We saw you coming. Welcome to the Folly, home of British magic since 1775, according to my boss."

"Funny place to have 'Science is Power' over the doorway, isn't it?"

"Behold our patron," Peter said, indicating the statue of Sir Isaac Newton.

John studied it in silence for a moment. "I suppose, the alchemy toward the end…"

"That was really much closer to materials-science than the work he did codifying magic."

"Right," said John. "I think I'm up to believing at least six impossible things before supper, now." Peter hung John's coat up, and they walked into the broad, rectangular atrium, quite dark now. John craned his neck to look at the two floors of balcony above. "Is it as big as it looks?"

"At least," said Peter. "Come into the library here, there's a fire."

The library was cozier, a more human scale, but it still looked to John like something out of The National Trust. Or perhaps Country Life: subdued lighting, bookshelves, thick Persian carpets on the floor, and huge comfortable-looking leather chairs drawn near to the fire. A small dog lay asleep on the hearth rug, at least until it sensed John and jumped up to sniff at his ankles. John bent down and scratched its ears.

"That's Toby," said a woman's voice, as a slight figure rose out of the chair engulfing her. "Nightingale just called and asked me to apologise for his not being here; he and Dr. Walid are on their way."

"Doctor John Watson, Police Constable Lesley May," said Peter, as they shook hands.

"How do you do?" John's surroundings carried him back to the manners imposed on him as a small boy. PC May had beautiful eyes, and while trying not to look too hard at her mask John found himself admiring the rest of her. He was aware of her sizing him up at the same time.

"Very well, thank you. It's lovely to meet you, Doctor Watson."

"John," he suggested.

"Lesley," she agreed.

"Peter," said Peter. "Lesley, do you have to flirt with everyone?"

"I don't flirt with _everyone,_" she protested. "They usually run screaming when they see the mask." She turned to John. "I was glad you started writing the blog again."

"Oh. Good?" There was a moment when John was aware that all of them were not mentioning Sherlock, which of course was much the same as if one of them had. They all sat down, and a maid, an actual maid, came in with a tea tray. She put it on a table next to Lesley and left. Toby followed her out of the room.

"The good china," Lesley said, pouring out. "You rate very highly, John. What do you want in your tea?"

"Just milk, thanks." John stared after the departed maid.

"That was Molly," said Peter. "She's been here almost as long as Nightingale. And there's us, and that's all."

"Is Molly an apprentice, too?"

"No," said Peter. "I'm not quite sure what she is, but she 'does' for us. We're _learning_ magic, and she _is_."

"Like the troll?" asked John.

"Different, but yeah."

"Seven impossible things," said John. "Why aren't there more of you? This huge place—"

"I don't know," said Peter. "Something happened toward the end of the Second World War, and then most of the wizards were dead and no new ones seemed to be popping up. According to Nightingale everyone thought that magic was dwindling away."

"Too much cold iron?"

"They thought it was like that; only, iron doesn't have much effect on what we do. Magic was doing very well right up through the Industrial Revolution and the First World War. But after 1945 Nightingale was the only working wizard left, and according to him no one came along until I did, last January. A year now," Peter said. A shadow came over him; he shook it off. "A very full year. Nightingale found me while I was still a probationary constable, trying to find a ghost. At least I think that was why he took me on."

"You were willing to believe him," said Lesley. "Unlike pretty much everyone else in the Met."

"Did you find the ghost?" John asked.

"Eventually," said Peter.

"It found me," said Lesley.

"Is that how you you became an apprentice?"

Peter and Lesley both stirred in their seats, Peter deferring to his friend. "Indirectly," she said. "This"—she gestured toward her face—"happened last spring, at the end of his first case; I've spent the last six month having surgeries and being angry and desperate. And knowing what Peter could do, I kind of taught myself—and Nightingale recruited me to make sure I learned everything else properly, formally."

"In all the stories, untrained wizards are supposed to be a danger to themselves and everyone else," John said, wondering which book it was that he'd read that.

"There aren't supposed to be any untrained wizards at all, and Nightingale considers us to be dangers to ourselves anyway," said Peter.

"Well, you certainly are. He makes things explode," Lesley explained to John. "— Oh, here they are."

The two constables stood up as the lounge door opened; John rose with them. A sandy-haired man of fifty or so, patches on the elbows of his tweed jacket, and a younger man with brown hair, a rather elegant suit, and a silver-headed walking stick, came into the room. Neither of them fit the description John had in mind for the master of apprentice wizards—no long robes or funny hats or owl droppings. The younger man put his stick carefully against the wall, and came to John with his hand outstretched. "I am terribly sorry to have missed your arrival, Doctor Watson. CDI Thomas Nightingale; I'm so glad you could come."

"Thank you for having me," said John. This man was much too young to be any of the things Peter or Lesley had said, surely—barely older than John himself.

"And this is Doctor Abdul Haqq Walid, of University College Hospital—"

John shook hands again. "You wouldn't be a gastro specialist, would you?"

"I am at that," said Dr. Walid in a Scots burr that matched his colouring better than his name.

"Mike Stamford at Barts thinks very highly of you, good to meet you."

"Ah, Mike, a lovely man, excellent surgeon, how do you know him?"

"We trained together a hundred years ago, I was a trauma surgeon—"

Molly opened the lounge door. Nightingale nodded at her. "We'll be right along. Doctor Watson, dinner is served, shall we go in?"

John assented with enthusiasm and they made their way into the atrium, but then he noticed Lesley heading toward the stairs. "Aren't you joining us?"

"I'll…meet you afterwards," said Lesley. "The mask—it's too bloody difficult to work around. Particularly if Molly's left the salad greens whole, I look like a rabbit."

John looked at the other men. Peter looked almost angry, Nightingale patient. Walid said softly, "I'm her doctor; well, among them."

"If you usually take your mask off to eat, umm, please don't feel you need to run away on my account," John said to Lesley. "Afghanistan, remember? Worse things happen in war."

"You don't eat dinner with them," Lesley said. John thought she was open to persuasion.

"I have," he said. "Although they were not such delightful companions and tended to talk about football and farting, most of the time."

"That sounds like Lesley," said Peter.

Lesley rolled her eyes, then looked, considering, at John.

"I'd show you my scar, but it's not that impressive, and I was brought up to wear my shirt in company. Please, if you're worried about my comfort zone, you should know it's a bit wider than most people's. Fingers in the fridge."

"Whole heads," recalled Peter.

Lesley looked at John another moment and then, slowly (but not at all seductively), took off the mask. John examined the ruin of her face: scarred, uneven, obscenely broken and melted. "The skin grafts are taking very well," he said.

"Thank you," she said. "That's something. As I imagine you know, it's going very slowly and with no real hope of anything normal-looking when they finish." She finished defiantly, daring him to say anything glib.

"And obviously they've done wonders to get you speaking so well again. Are you in much pain? Or rather, are you actually taking the meds when it hurts? No, of course you're not. I know everyone else has told you off for that, but I'll just add that unless you find yourself wanting to lie about taking fewer rather than more, you're not addicted and being in pain won't make it heal any faster."

Lesley blushed, in patches. It was either sad or fascinating, and bore out John's remark about the grafts doing well.

"I'll tell Molly you'll be eating with us, then," said Nightingale. "Just be a moment." When Nightingale returned to escort them into the dining room John almost expected to have to take someone's arm, but they weren't quite so formal as that. The five of them milled to one reasonably-sized table in one corner of a large dining room, echoingly empty except for them. Nightingale took the head of the table; John sat across from Walid with Lesley on his right and Peter across from her.

"So after your time in Afghanistan you retrained as a general practitioner?" Walid asked.

"I can't operate anymore, nerve damage in my shoulder. Got shot." Both the older men made soft noises of comprehension into their soup; Peter and Lesley looked at John a little longer. John looked back at them. "I was lucky," he said gently.

"I try to feel like I am," Lesley said. "None of the other people who had this happen to them lived. None of them had Peter there with wet towels."

"Advice," muttered Peter, waving his soup spoon at Walid.

"You don't have to feel lucky all the time," John said. "But it's good to remember it when you can." That was far more personal than he usually went outside of office hours. He felt, strangely, much older than the constables and much younger than the other two men. "Doctor Walid, how did you come to be part of this? Are you a wizard too?"

"No, indeed. All I know of magic is its effects on the human body, which are no in any way benign—"

"I beg your pardon," said Nightingale.

"Thomas, I've seen far more brains with hyperthaumaturgical degradation than I have cases like yours, and so have you." Walid turned back to John. "I dabble in forensic pathology. I ran into Thomas at the British Library, both asking to see the same mediaeval Arabic volume. A week later he turned up in connection with a case where the deceased actually had butterflies in his stomach—live butterflies, at least I thought they were—"

"Zombie butterflies?" asked Peter.

"Live things that _looked_ like butterflies," said Nightingale. "I have one in a tube in my study, but I shouldn't let it out if I were you." Everyone else at the table shuddered.

"And you, Doctor Watson, what brings you to this irrational gathering?" Walid asked.

"Last autumn, I had a psychotic interlude on Westminster Bridge, where an African matriarch appeared out of thin air, read my mind, and told me to buck up and carry on. And later there was corroborating evidence that she wasn't a delusion. And then…"

He couldn't explain that finding out from Mycroft just _why_ Sherlock Holmes had jumped to his death in front of him had helped John turn a corner; he barely admitted, even to himself, Lestrade's belief the jump had not actually led to Sherlock's death. It gave John a kind of carefully unexamined hope. He turned away from the slightest thought of that. He threw in his lot with people who believed in Mother Thames and God knew what else, and continued.

"I feel like a fool for saying this, but my life just wasn't _enough_." Peter was looking covertly at Nightingale, who wasn't looking at anyone. Lesley and Dr. Walid were looking at him. "A different kind of angry and desperate from yours, I guess," he said to Lesley. "But I thought I would ask Mother Thames if she had any work I could do. It was that or join Doctors Without Borders, and I don't want to leave London. Even if some people think it would be healthier." If Sherlock's notoriety had cost him the greater part of his privacy, at least he didn't have to explain why his life might have had failures of meaning these days.

"Effra told us you had offered Mother Thames your sword," Nightingale said. "I'd be interested in knowing if that was really what you said."

John told them. "I hadn't thought of it as homage or fealty, but it sounded right when she did," he concluded.

"You were either canny or fortunate in your choice of words," Nightingale said. "It is perilous to deal with the genii locorum even with some power of one's own."

"I've barely met Lady Tyburn, and I can't say that I want to know her any better. But Raven seemed safe enough."

"I'm certain people say the same of you," said Nightingale. "But I'm aware of what went into your Army training and the kind of thing you've been involved with since your return. The Rivers have worshippers, and acolytes, but Mother Thames accepted your service as a warrior. At some point you're likely to be asked to act as one."

John considered how odd it was to be eating with three police officers and to be saying, as he was, "I hope she won't ask me to kill anyone. Those days are behind me." Though he recalled reassuring Lestrade of the same thing more than once (mostly truthfully).

"Perhaps not so far as you think," said Nightingale.

The hair on the back of John's neck prickled. "Be that as it may. Mother Thames's first orders to me were to go home and go to sleep, and go to work in the morning. All she and her daughters have asked so far of me has been from the medical side."

"Peter told me about you and Aelred—"

"You didn't happen to get a blood or tissue sample, did you?" broke in Doctor Walid.

John shook his head. "The opportunity to discuss that with him didn't come up, sorry. I'll keep it in mind for the future, though, I promise." He turned back to Nightingale. "Do you have any idea what could have bitten him, sir? Something dragged him by his arm along the riverbank."

"We usually attribute it to a pack of feral dogs," said Nightingale. Lesley nudged Peter and muttered something that sounded like 'plastic bags'; Nightingale gave her a quelling glance. "But there are beasts in the river—and elsewhere—that don't usually trouble ordinary mortals. Lesley, you will present me with a thousand-word essay about them on Monday afternoon."

"Yes, sir. Sorry, sir," Lesley said, showing no shred of repentance.

"It must have been a nasty wound indeed, for them to have called you in, Doctor Watson."

"It was. I wanted to take him to A&E but she said he wouldn't go. And she said if he'd been one of her relatives she could have healed it by laying on of hands, which seems hard to believe—"

"I threw a relative of theirs bleeding out—almost completely bled out—from having a wrought-iron railing stuck through him—into the Thames and he was fine in minutes," said Peter. "That was as strange as anything else that's happened to me since I started here."

"And magic can fix something magic didn't cause," said Lesley, pursuing some argument begun long ago, to judge by the concerned looks the other three at the table gave her.

"We tend to define magic as something out of the ordinary natural order," said Nightingale. "Hence the term 'super' natural. But for magical creatures, magical 'persons' if you insist—"

"'Creatures' aren't accorded human rights and we don't make 'agreements' with them—" muttered Peter.

"Magic is not anything more unusual than the laws of gravity are for us, and hardly as well examined. That's why our interactions with them are fraught with danger, why I spend so much time trying to persuade you to be cautious, why Doctor Walid scans your brains, and why it doesn't work the same way on them as it does on us."

"After I finished checking Aelred's arm he asked Raven to do laying-on-of-hands on him—he wasn't her kin so she couldn't just zip him up, but it seemed to do him good and—" John hesitated. Still, he felt safe among these rational people, despite their specialities—"it felt very good when she put her hands on my shoulder. I didn't quite know what to make of it. Would you call that magic?"

"It's not the Newtonian sort of magic," said Nightingale. "Pace Peter's desire for empiricism, I think laying-on-of-hands will at some point be more easily explained, whether as a partially self-generated placebo effect or some charismatic psychological effect worker by the healer."

"In other words," said Lesley, "you don't believe in it."

"In other words," said Nightingale, "I don't know anything about it. Abdul? Is there a tradition of spiritual healing in Islam?"

Walid nodded. "Quite a long-established one, though I have preferred a more, mm, exoteric form of medicine. From the little I know of any of them it seems in line with Asian beliefs like chi and prana. In the course of my practice I've met a number of people who seemed to have something of a gift, usually nurses or chaplains. I have encountered many reiki practitioners. Pleasantly non-denominational. Of course most religiously devout people consider it healing to be a gift of a fundamentally loving God."

"More power to them," said Nightingale. Walid raised his eyebrows; Nightingale ducked his head briefly and gave his friend a small smile. "Sorry."

"Raven thought I ought to take reiki training from a woman in North London," said John, banishing the looming questions of theodicy.

"Interesting," said Nightingale. "Does she want you to do this as a condition of your fealty?"

"I don't think she's that emphatic, but she told me it would be useful and that it was unscientific of me not to see if that kind of healing could be taught." John shrugged. "Which, I suppose… and really, anything that makes people think they can get better helps them get better. But it seems odd, like being ordained, perhaps? I read a bit about it online. Once the 'channels' are opened, you say some words and hold some symbols in your mind—people disagree on if the words or the symbols even have a meaning—and the chi or whatever is supposed to come out of you and make the other person feel better. And you can do it on yourself, or to someone at a distance."

Walid nodded. "That's what I've always heard, yes."

"I suppose making shapes in your mind could be a way to focus your intention," said John, before he noticed the three magicians at the table looking strained. "Have I said something wrong?"

"No, no," Nightingale said. "But making a particular shape in one's mind is the way Newtonian magicians cast a spell. Very specific shapes, and not everyone can sense or conceive of them well enough to…activate them."

"It would be interesting," murmured Lesley, "to compare the two systems."

"You? Believe in this?" Peter asked.

"People do reiki to me after the operations on my face; it feels good. I didn't know you could do it to yourself."

"Does it help?"

"I thought it did. Can anyone learn, not like—all this?" Lesley's gesture encompassed the whole huge house.

"From what I understand, anyone can do reiki: little children, even a motivated service animal; but that's where the claims get muddy around the edges," said Walid.

"And their origin stories only took place early in the last century, but they aren't borne out by contemporary records. At least not according to the websites I visited, which God knows is hardly proof of anything," said John.

"You sound like you don't want to believe in it," said Peter.

"I am a fully-licensed, fully-trained doctor of conventional Western medicine," said John. "I don't think anyone will revoke my license if I spend two mornings with a self-styled white witch, but—"

"Oh, is this Maggie Armitage?" asked Nightingale.

"That was the teacher Raven suggested, yes," said John.

"She's a lovely woman. Possibly mad as a hatter, but she thinks I'm a stuffy old man, We get along very well. Mind you, it was some years ago, but I can't imagine she's changed. I'm sorry, do go on, Doctor Watson."

"The kind of science I use is empirically proven and tested as objectively as we know how," John said. "And so many people who have practised any other kind of medicine have poisoned people, or bled them to death, or defrauded them, or killed off rhinos, that conventional physicians tend to find themselves diametrically opposed to anything that hasn't been duplicated and peer-reviewed and above all, explained."

"But I'm sure you've seen how irrational beliefs can influence a patient's progress for weal or woe," said Walid. "It's one of the frustrating things about medicine; at least it used to be. Now I've accepted that people aren't just neat packages of more or less working parts, that it goes beyond merely 'a ghost in the machine,' I'm a better doctor: I don't expect things to go according to my plans, and I know that, beyond the patient's conscious agency, and perhaps even the patient's unconscious agency—"

"Excuse me?" asked Peter. "Please what?"

Walid took a sip of water. "Say you have a basically healthy man with some quite curable complaint, but his wife's just died. He may say he wants to get well—may even actually want to—but his body, his heart or his subconscious as you will—aren't so sure, and he may remain ill far longer than you expect. Or even die. Many cases like that, some of them even just so clear-cut. Am I correct, Doctor Watson?"

"Please call me John. You are entirely correct, and then there's the whole range of psychosomatic symptoms—" John saw Peter smile at him; he knew the story of John's leg.

Walid nodded. "So even without invoking spirituality of any kind, we in Western medicine have had to admit there are areas where our methods don't have any effect. Or not enough."

"I'm perfectly willing to admit that," said John. "I don't think anyone finishes medical training without learning that there are limits to what we can do. I'm apparently uncomfortable to find that not all the boundaries are where I thought they were."

"You're willing to believe in river goddesses, but not in something you may be able to do yourself?" suggested Nightingale.

"I thought I knew who and what I was," said John. "Lots of things are all right for other people to do, but not for me." It struck him what sort of things he would have included among them when he was a student: killing people outside the army; killing people as part of the army; denying awkward facets of his sexuality. Lying to the police and the government as a matter of course. All still worth a pause for thought. "I've never thought faith-healing was was something for me, but I asked the universe to send me something interesting, and I don't think this is a place I should really draw a line. Why not?"

"I'd like to take the reiki training," said Lesley, "and it would be nice to have company."

"I'd like to be more useful," John told her, "and I'd enjoy your company as well."

John couldn't tell what the dynamics were at that table; nothing so simple as who might be sleeping with whom. It was as pleasant an evening as he had had in years, intelligent people, none of them waspish or swathing their words in veils of meaning. They had all accepted the impossibility that Newton (Newton!) had codified, that had lit John's first-aid and heated his water. (As he stitched up a… troll.) He wanted to hear stories from Walid, the other Muggle and the other physician. He liked Peter and Lesley; they were nice kids, and as sharp as anyone John knew among Lestrade's minions. And Nightingale…the older—he believed that now, but it was hard when he was looking at him—man was a puzzle. Not just his seeming youth; he spoke like a man who had seen combat, somehow, who had lost more than he'd known he had and was walking carefully, regaining his balance among the living. John knew that feeling.

"I hope you'll come again, Doctor Watson," Nightingale said, after Molly had brought them a sweet (treacle tart; it hit some ancient memory in John's taste buds), and then a cheese board.

"I would love to," John said sincerely. He would have to tell Lestrade not to worry. No one whose table groaned beneath such exquisitely-calibrated cholesterol deserved Lestrade's outright distrust.

"Perhaps after you and Constable May have been initiated into the reiki mysteries," said Nightingale. "Though I fear I have less interest in such comparative studies than anyone else here. And that I cannot linger, this evening. Abdul?"

"John, good to have met you. Give Mike my best?" John nodded.

"It's all right, sir," Peter said. "I was going to show Doctor Watson the tech cave before I drive him home."

"Tech cave?"

"It's Peter's football sanctuary," Lesley explained. The two younger people walked John out the back of the main building, to the floor above the vehicles in the garage that was so obviously an old stable-house. "Magic affects computer circuitry very badly—"

"Ruins it completely—"

"So Peter made a kind of nerve centre outside the house-"

"Which is magically roped-off-"

The room above the coach-house actually felt different to John, but he suspected it was mostly that they had been excused from the grown-ups' company and were now free to go off and play. "Wow," he said, when he saw Peter's screen. "You went for it."

"This is the closest thing I've ever had to a place of my own," said Peter, "and I'm likely to be here for the next nine years, apparently."

"You think he'll make us stay for the whole apprenticeship?" Leslie asked.

"I'm not hating it here," Peter said. "Meals and laundry and not much of a commute."

"I hadn't thought about that," said Lesley. "2022's a long way off."

Peter flicked on the television. "Arsenal hasn't a chance. Do you like football, Doctor?"

"At this scale, of course I do," said John. "Better than being there, in some ways."

"It's brilliant for the cinematography on some films, too," said Lesley. "John, will you date our boss?"

"LESLEY—" said Peter. John waved it off.

"I'm not in the market these days," John said. "And it's been a long time since I went out with anyone older than I am. Or a man. I'm not saying it's out of the question—" he was saying that for his own benefit, but he was pleased how calm he sounded—"but among other things I didn't feel any spark. You flirt more than he does."

"And that's the problem, right there," said Lesley.

"We don't know that he's even gay," interrupted Peter.

"Oh, come on, Peter—"

"I'm just saying you can't read him the same way you'd read someone who was really forty-four or whatever. It was different then. Turing."

"What do you think, John?"

"I know for certain I don't know," John said, feeling his age. "And I don't think it's your job to be trying to fix him up."

Lesley sighed. "I just think—he's so lonely, sometimes. And I don't think he has a clue how to go about it."

"He's a hundred and twelve years old," said Peter. "He lost everything in World War Two. Everyone. He says himself he thinks he slept through the Nineteen-Fifties and most of the Sixties."

"Lesley," said John, "It's really kind of you, and I know you mean well, but he'll date when he wants to, when he finds someone he wants to know better. If he is gay or bi, he's noticed it's much different from his own youth. Christ, even if he's _straight_, it's different from his youth. It's different from MY youth."

They were all silent for a moment. "Well," said Lesley, "I suppose I should apologise."

"Not at all," said John. "I'm taking it as a compliment."

"You are very sweet," she said. "I'm off to swot up my fabulous creatures. And if it turns out you'd rather date me I hope I haven't put you off too badly. Send me that link, we'll do the reiki thing, then, eh?"

"I will feel better having another rationalist around, yeah, thanks," said John. "I'll send it when I get home. Maggie Armitage's website seemed flexible about dates, we'll work something out."

Lesley nodded, and said goodnight, and left Peter and John watching Milan savage Arsenal. "Sorry," said Peter, handing John a bottle of Beck's.

"This is fine," protested John.

Peter sank back into his chair. "Lesley, I meant. She does mean well."

"No apology needed," said John.

"Do you— I mean, you, I mean, shit, sorry—"

"Have dated men, didn't date Sherlock, sort of wish I had, kind of messed up. And really, did not feel anything like that from Nightingale."

"Lesley wants people to be happy. She feels like all of us with faces have no problems at all."

John looked at the younger man, sunk into his chair, lines starting on his face John had seen in the Army.

"And I think you know that's not true."

Peter shook his head. "Of course it isn't. Worse when you're Job, a copper, I mean." John nodded. Lestrade used the phrase sometimes. He waited, in case Peter wanted to say more.

He did, after a moment, glancing up at John and then away again. "Case in October. Three women—suspects—I don't know how to describe them. They were hurting people but they didn't know that they were—they killed themselves."

"That's horrible," John said. Peter looked up again.

"I'm sorry—"

"No, don't be," John said. "It's not something people feel they can talk about, and if the way Sherlock died can do any good for anyone at all—It's harder pretending nothing like that ever happened to me. You said suspects but… friends of yours, at all as well?"

"One of them, yeah. Really a close friend."

"You loved her."

"I think I did, if I thought of anything at the time. The way I felt after she died, I think I must have. Being with her wasn't the best idea in the first place, I'm well aware… and I don't think a magic glamour is a good enough excuse not to have noticed…" He shrugged.

"But you didn't notice—what?"

"Oh, she should have been a suspect, it should have been front and centre in my head. It was right there, I can see it in my notes…" He looked up at John. "It's hard to explain. They didn't know they were doing harm. I didn't do a very good job when I figured it out, didn't think. It came as a shock to her, to all of them. I keep thinking of what I could have done differently."

"Yeah, I know that one." John wondered what to say, wondered what people had said that had actually helped him. Nothing glib. "Three of them?

"They were sisters, sort of," said Peter. "Close as makes no difference. I should have known they might…" He broke off and John knew the sound of someone just keeping it in control.

"You can't. You can't know. You don't know unless it's something they've been thinking about for long time, and even then…"

Peter shook his head. "It all happened in a kind of a rush. And there was—outside pressure, it didn't make any of us more careful."

"Do you, are there any friends who knew both of you? Anyone who knew her you can talk about her with?"

"No. I'm not sure Lesley really knows I was…or Nightingale, but he wouldn't be any help. He thought they were Creatures of the Night. Maybe they were, but no more than some of the other people I know. I mean, as far as—where do you draw the line? I'm in no position to say who's Other and who's Us. Nice white people wonder about me every day on the Tube."

"And as a police officer you have another set of Us and Them. Civilians don't understand."

"Too right," said Peter. "Is it like that with doctors?"

"Easier to turn on and off, I think,. For me, anyway," said John. "You argue a lot with Nightingale?"

"About that? Yes. But it's good arguing; we respect one another. Hell, we like one another. We have each others' backs, it makes it possible to argue with him. But I can't talk about Simone with him."

John hesitated. He wasn't Sherlock; he didn't tell people all the things they were keeping elaborately hidden from themselves and one another. But this was important, he sensed. "Or about Lesley?"

Peter glanced up, colouring perceptibly. "You picked up on that, did you?"

"Or maybe I'm just making the usual assumptions, but you and she are in something intense, together, and it looks complicated as hell."

"Nightingale, God bless him, swallowed once when he saw Lesley doing magic, and did his duty. He said he assumed that if the Met found her a worthy officer, he ought not to say any different. His boarding school was all boys, but that's not something confined to magicians. And he keeps trying to recall that Lesley and I are adults, which means we won't do anything so foul to one another that we can't both be his apprentices. He and I both worry about her."

"But he's not someone you can confide in about your feelings?"

"You met him, right?" said Peter. "The Empire isn't dead."

"All right, then," said John. "It isn't any of my business, but I'm here, and I see it. She doesn't know about—Simone?—and you?"

"We've never spoken of it. But that was…if I say it was like an enchantment, and we both overlook that I might mean it more literally than you would—Lesley wasn't living in the Folly until a month after Simone and her sisters died, she was at home in Essex for the whole case. And…I'm not—" Peter broke off, sighed, sipped his beer. "Okay," he said, after a minute. "Suppose I just say I loved Simone. That it was good and real. And at the same time it was wrong, because it played hell with my abilities as a copper, and that was where my duty lay, I know that. Even if I can blame some of it on forces beyond my control, I still should have done better." He looked up at John, who was perching on the arm of the couch. "But even if it wasn't my whole heart, I still felt it."

"Do you regret loving her?"

"No," said Peter. "I don't, except, when I look back at me and Simone now, I see all the papered-over flaws, all the little sealed fantasy world of it. And it led to my cocking up the end of the case and then indirectly—I keep telling myself, _indirectly_, to her death. She's gone. And I've loved Lesley longer and better, and I'm glad she doesn't seem to be aware of Simone. She'd be right to give me hell about the unprofessionalism, and she would, no fear."

"So what are you waiting for?" John asked. "Do you think you need more time to recover from losing Simone?"

"No. Well. Maybe. But before Lesley's accident, we were both busy, and we didn't have time and we both wanted our careers…and I'm not sure she wanted me that way. I didn't want to cock up our friendship."

"I know that one," said John.

"You said something like that a minute ago—you wish you and he had been, ah."

"It's easy to think that now," John said. "I remember how I felt at the time, I had reasons not to want to. And now…?" He shrugged. "Lost opportunities are always greener, aren't they? But Lesley isn't dead, and she won't wait forever."

Peter sighed. "I hear you. But I can't, I can't go to her now, not while—" he faltered. John was puzzled.

"Are you waiting for it to get better? Because you you don't seem—put off by the disfigurement."

"I'm not that kind of bastard, I hope," Peter said, raising his head from his hands. "Though, since we're having this kind of talk, I can't say it wouldn't be easier the first time in the dark. She was beautiful; I mean, her face was, she's still lovely in herself and her, umm, figure—and no, realistically of course I'm not waiting for it to get better. We flirted a lot before, but she never—we were friends, before, and that mattered more than anything. I was fairly sure she didn't really fancy me."

"'Before' was a different time," said John. "Now, she needs, bone-deep—excuse me—to know she's still attractive. Still desirable. I know this. I knew women and men who had horrible injuries, and I saw what a difference it made for someone reassure them that whatever else they'd lost they could still be sexual."

"She gets really angry if she thinks someone is feeling sorry for her. She doesn't want to be a pity fuck—"

"She wouldn't be, and I'll bet she knows that—oh, damn," John said, realising. "And you don't want to just be her….ticket back to a normal sex life."

"It's a bit like a pity fuck in reverse, isn't it?" Peter said. John admired the steadiness he was managing to put in his voice. "If she'd take me because she knows I wouldn't refuse."

"That would be something, for her to trust you that much," John suggested.

"I don't want to seem as selfish I think this will sound, but…I'd really rather she got over that hurdle with someone else, because I don't know if her and whoever it is would be able to have any kind of relationship afterwards." Peter raised his face from his hands. "How awful a person does that make me?"

"It could go either way," said John, as honestly as he could. "She trusts you a great deal, more apparently than you trust her."

"Yeah," said Peter. "Doesn't mean I don't care about her."

"She won't wait forever, and you could lose her altogether."

Peter shook his head. "I know what you mean, but we're in this apprenticeship for the long haul; it's not like we were just friends. I'm sure if I asked Nightingale he'd just tell me to keep it in my trousers, but it's more complicated than that. Lesley's side of things, to begin with."

"You don't think he'd tell her to just keep it in her trousers too?"

"I'm not sure it would cross his mind that she might have any desires to stuff back in. Professor McGonagall would be awfully handy here, sometimes. Nightingale never thought he'd end up teaching apprentices; he makes it seem as though including Lesley as an apprentice is no big deal, but I'm not sure he wants to think it through. And the things he's teaching us, now, were for twelve year-olds in his day. Most of the time he's very good at remembering we're adults. Most of the time we act like it," Peter added, with a very small smile.

The atmosphere lightened; John could tell Peter had got something off his chest, even if John wasn't quite sure what it was. "All I can suggest is that you go on being as honest as you can, with Lesley but more importantly with yourself. And think about taking some risks that are personal, not professional. It's hard to look back sometimes—but you know that."

"I do look back," said Peter. "Sometimes I'm glad I had what I had with Simone, and sometimes I think it made things worse. For her; I know it did for me. But I'm pretty sure it was her idea. Where Lesley wasn't easy to romance before, and now—" He faced John firmly. "If me and Lesley ever happen, I don't want it to be a one-off, a nice psychological pick-me-up for her."

"I do understand," said John. "But what if you're the only one who can do that for her? Can you lie back, and think of England?"

"If that was all it was?"

"I don't think either of us can say 'all that was' and have any idea how much it could mean," said John. "Might be better to think you were giving her everything you can, and she was accepting everything she could take. There are less good reasons to risk having your heart broken."

Peter thought for a few minutes. Milan kept the ball mostly in Arsenal's end, barring a short-lived rally or so. Finally Peter said, "I don't know that anything will come of it—really, we're mostly very busy; but I'll think about what you said, thanks."

"I'm sorry if I'm poking my nose where you weren't asking for it," said John. "And any time you want to talk about Simone, or suicide, or policing—or football—, I'm up for it. I don't say much about Sherlock's death, but I'd have been in much worse shape without our friends."

"Thanks," said Peter. "And I don't think we've done much to ease your culture shock about Mama Thames, but you know we're here, too."

John nodded. He stayed for the rest of the game; they didn't say much, except, as Peter pulled his car up in front of Baker Street, he said, "You know, you don't have to date my boss, but maybe you could date my partner?"

"No," said John. "No. Apart from everything else, my webmistress would decapitate both of us if she caught me with someone younger than she is, considering that was the main reason I had for turning her down. Maybe the white witch will know someone?"

Peter laughed, unhappily; and they said good night and parted.


	3. Tea With Maggie

"So have either of you read the documents I sent you last week?" asked Maggie Armitage. She didn't seem to mind either way, John thought. Her flat was full of light, as well as occasional tables covered with interesting stones, bits of wood and hardware, souvenirs of the Silver Jubilee, shabby ancient paperbacks, and improbably healthy houseplants. She had offered them tea; Lesley had accepted, drinking through a straw.

"I read them," said John.

"And?" asked Maggie. "I can guess what you think."

"I think it's shambolic, really," said Lesley. "Barely a hundred years old and split twenty different ways and half of them don't think the other half have any idea."  
>"That sums it up," said Maggie. "Makes it rather similar to most other human endeavours. Except your science, Doctor."<p>

"Call me John, please," John said. "The early days of the Royal Society aren't very reassuring, either."

"So you think, given time, people will sort it out? Do you know anything about the history of Christianity or Islam or Judaism? If you're waiting for consensus, it may take a while." She sighed. "I try to teach a fairly clean version of the so-called Western Reiki Tradition, though I've been working in so many others for so long I can't guarantee I'm not corrupting it. But like many other forms of energy healing— do either of you know any? No? All right.—reiki is tolerant of blurred boundaries. The universe, if you like, is willing to try to understand what you mean. Quite different from your tradition, Lesley. That said, of course, you should try to be precise, and draw the symbols in your head as carefully as you can, even if all that that affects is your intent." She looked at them for moment. "Do you even believe in chi? Not that it matters, but I'd like to make discussing energy fields as painless as possible."

Lesley's face was hidden, of course, but the set of her body seemed to radiate implacability. More rationalist than—most, he thought. How would Sherlock have handled a painful, chronic injury like hers? He'd been aware enough that his beauty gave him advantages—. "I doubt that either of us is your typical student, Maggie, but I promise it's more than curiosity that brings us here. Why don't you treat us like we aren't from the other side of the fence, and we'll try to act as though we believe in the system?"

Maggie nodded. "That's how most people do it, John, whatever reason they have to want reiki in their lives." She looked at Lesley. "If you feel at some point today that you would be more comfortable with your mask off, Lesley, don't worry about sparing my feelings."

"Maybe later," said Lesley.

"Very well, then." She switched into a more teacherly style, rolling her eyes right back when Lesley did without missing a beat. " Chemical reactions involve changes in electrical charge, and our bodies, full of chemical and electrical reactions from digestion to regulations within the smallest parts of our cells, have an electrical field around them. That's one way our technological era characterises the human aura, which has been studied one way or another since we've been human, and likely before—don't you have a dog at the Folly that sees ghosts?—"

By the end of an hour John had a working knowledge of theories that seemed at least slightly better grounded than astrology. John and Lesley practiced trying to feel energy between their own two hands, and between one another's, and the three of them had tossed around a sort of invisible tennis ball that he almost thought he could believe he nearly felt.

"What's this like for you, Lesley? I know you Isaacs play a version of this—"

"Different. This doesn't feel like much of anything, really." said Lesley. "Ours involves physical objects that can give you a bruise. Dr. Walid makes us play in helmets."

"It must have been hard for you to accept magic, at first," said Maggie.

"I never really had a choice," Lesley said. "It wasn't a matter of belief when my face fell off."

"But becoming what Thomas calls a practitioner—that took more than belief that magic was 'out there'. You accepted it personally. Not everyone has the persistence."

There was a pause John _felt_ as Lesley decided to trust them both, a bit. "I was going mad," she said, a touch of defiance. "Trying to make the light wasn't any less mad than despair. I didn't really expect anything to happen, but it gave me something else to think about. Besides killing myself. Sorry, I know I'm not supposed to say that."

"You wouldn't be the only one to think of that," John said. It was a funny way to try to make someone feel normal. She stared at him.

"I know that. The other person who survived the initial, umm, injury did kill himself."

"I meant in this room."

She stared at him. He shook his head before she could shape the name. "Not after Sherlock; before all that, when I came back from Afghanistan. I'm better now. And I know people don't like to hear it mentioned, but suicidal ideation isn't uncommon."

Lesley exhaled slowly. "They give us hell about it in support group—facial injury support group, at my doctors'."

"I don't think not mentioning it helps," said John. "And speaking as someone whose best friend jumped off St. Bart's without any warning, I'd rather know you had thought of it than not."

"Lesley," said Maggie, "It's a lot to ask you to take the word of an old woman you've only just met, and I admit what you've lost is less avoidable, more obvious—"

"More 'In your face'—" Lesley said bitterly.

"—Exactly that—than what happens to most people; but loss is the biggest thing people have in common. And there's no response so terrible, so frightening or wicked, that other people haven't had it. So there's no need to be afraid of your own. You're trained to assess things; don't fail that training now, don't be frightened off. And don't be afraid to tell other people about it, to defend your feelings. Any more than John was defending Sherlock Holmes's memory, when you know what all the gutter press was saying."

Perhaps a white witch was used to naming the elephants in a given room, John thought. He smiled a little at Maggie; he liked being useful, after all, and if she could use him to give Lesley just a little more peace with her own unhappiness—but right now Lesley had had enough, he thought. Give it time to settle in. "All right then," he said. "So when are you going to ordain us, Maggie?"

It turned out she rather liked the metaphor, though she said it was more like opening a door than transferring a mystical gift. John had his doubts; the reiki tradition seemed to make a thing of something very like apostolic succession. But they discussed signs and visions (they sounded a good deal to John like the auras seen by some migraine and epileptic sufferers), and then, in silence, Maggie drew on the tops of their heads and the palms of their hands. Then she invited them to try to summon up the energy between their hands again.

"Damn," said Lesley, echoing John's thoughts. "That's interesting."

And it was. Not because John could feel anything, but because what he didn't feel was different from the not-anything he had (hadn't) felt before. He bounced it in his hand as they had earlier, and it was different. All right, it was easier to believe he had a small ball of energy, something like that.

Lesley was raising her hands toward her face. "Try it on John first," Maggie suggested. "If that's all right, John?" He nodded. "Hold your hands an inch or so away from him, sweep slowly down, paying attention to any difference you feel. The next pass, you'll try to smooth them out, comb them out, but the first time is just assessing. This is straight-up Therapeutic Touch—I see you've heard of that, too, John— but it's more both your style than the proper reiki tradition." She talked about the reiki hand positions anyway, pouring the energy into the recipients' 'chakras'—energy centres in a person's body—one by one as Lesley moved her two hands from his head down past his shoulders—no, she went back over them and shook her head.

"But I know you were wounded there," she said. "You talked about it the other day."

"It's still interesting you felt it," said Maggie. Lesley went on moving her hands past John's shoulders, chest, hips, stopped around mid-thigh.

"Your leg, too?"

"Sometimes. It's psychosomatic."

"It still feels…messed up."

"What are you feeling, John?"

"I can feel warmth from her hands." And he could, almost like a slight pressure, though he could see she wasn't touching him. "But I can see where her hands are, so it could just be me being aware of her." Whatever else it might be, it was peaceful.

"Bless you both, you can be patron saints of double-blind studies."

Maggie guided Lesley through 'assessing' him, and when she went back to the air on both sides of the scar in his shoulder, John could feel something stranger than warmth, almost an internal wriggle of the scar tissue toward Lesley's hands. It was very odd. But again, he could see her, and there was no telling what could be done with a placebo response. (None at all, which made pharmaceutical trials so interesting.) "Try putting your hands where you think he needs the energy most."

Lesley placed her hands on the shirt-cotton almost exactly over the scars each side of John's body. Actual physical contact was reassuring, after the spooky sensation at a distance. Her hands were so warm it was startling: distinct but not completely different from the sensation of Raven's hands. He could feel it as both he and Lesley relaxed into their positions, as though the honey-thick wave of not-light were pouring over them both, sinking them into a quiet separate realm. He could think, but for the moment he didn't need to.

A few minutes later he could feel the curtain around them thin. Some of the luxurious weight on his limbs went away as Lesley stirred.

"It felt like it was drinking from my hands, but now it's—less, I guess," Lesley said.

Maggie nodded. "Sometimes you may want to stay on some part of someone indefinitely, but you usually won't have the opportunity. Smooth it out a few times—" Maggie gestured in the air— "and step away."

John noticed that both he and Lesley seemed to be coming out of a short nap—he shied from the word 'trance'—, taking deep breaths. He stretched his arms out; the wounded one felt looser, better, and both shoulders felt more free, as though he'd been more faithful to his PT exercises than he actually had.

Maggie suggested they walk around the room a bit, and pressed water and biscuits on them. "I want you both earthed again: I can tell it hit hard. Eating and drinking, anything physical, helps you become more focussed in this world, which you'd well to remember if you find yourself giving reiki in your daily lives."

After a quarter hour's break, Maggie asked if it would be all right with Lesley if she and John switched places. Lesley said yes, and took John's chair. He warmed up the ball of energy that he couldn't really feel between his palms again, and moved his hands carefully, slowly, along the inch or so of air surrounding Lesley's body. The difference between her head and the rest of her from her neck down was startling; he reached her ankles and shook out his hands. "Can I go from her feet up?" he asked.

"Yes, of course. You won't turn her inside out, John."

They both laughed a little, relaxing, and John consciously exhaled and tried not to feel like a cheap conjurer. But if he let himself imagine, it did _seem_ as though the immediate area around Lesley had a sort of consistent note, one that changed a little around one of her knees—all humans have dodgy knees, he thought, stock argument against intelligent design—, changed a little again near her heart, and went completely to discord around her masked face. Compassion swelled out of him; John wished, with all his heart, that he _could_ help—

"John," came Maggie's voice. "This might be a good time to remind you you're not supposed to be doing this on your own, you don't have to pull it out of yourself. In fact even if you can, it's a bad idea. Open up the top of your head and pull it in from outside, from God if you believe in God, from heaven or primordial fire or cosmic rays—just let the good stuff, wherever it comes from outside, pour through you. That's what the symbols on your head and hands are supposed to do, open the chakras or whatever you like and let you consciously move it toward Lesley."

His mind threw up a crowd of responses: "'That white light/Pouring down from the heavens/I haven't got time for the pain' oh, he really didn't; but you had to make time or it came and up behind you, a doctor had to have time… He took another deep breath. 'The force that through the green fuse drives the flower' , no need to 'believe' in that, that was everywhere… this planet anyway… 'the Universal Will to Become' ". If there was a force in the universe toward wholeness, toward order and beauty and not-pain, John was open to that. He thought of catching a beam of starlight and pulling it in through the top of his head, where Maggie had drawn whatever; sending it out through the palms of his hands, on his hope and his sympathy to Lesley. He felt the not-energy twist and wind in his palms and almost startled away; breathed calm into himself as he did in surgery or shooting guns or pool; quieted his mind, smoothed at the furor and angry dissonant spikes he didn't quite feel from Lesley's face, and hesitantly rested his hands on her head and shoulder.

Whatever reiki was for the receiver, the patient, it was powerfully relaxing for the practitioner, a warm waterfall spilling over them both; but after a few moments or minutes he became aware that Lesley was becoming more tense rather than less. He took his hands off her shoulders and glanced at Maggie.

"Carry it down and ground it, smooth it out and leave; it's gentler that way," she said. John moved his hands down as he had when 'assessing' Lesley, still aware of wanting to smooth and soothe and calm, though the jangle was quieter. He brought his hands to his own sides.

"Was it interesting for you?" he asked, when Lesley hadn't moved after a few seconds.

"Yeah," she said, very shortly.

"Are you all right?"

"John, why don't you go into the kitchen and make tea?" Maggie said. "Take a few minutes. You'll need it to find things, anyway. Or you can use your secret reiki powers to home in on the Assam."

"I'm happy to, what?"

She waved him out of the room. "I forgot, you don't get those till tomorrow."

More than he bargained for. As the electric kettle started its heavy breathing he could hear what was almost certainly Lesley breaking down into heaving sobs. There was a kitchen door behind a box and a basket and a couple of very functional-looking brooms, so John moved them, closed it, and devoted himself to seeing whether there were any biscuits.

About ten minutes later, Maggie came into the kitchen and John poured the contents of the kettle into the teapot. "Didn't want it to stew."

"Thoughtful. She's pulled herself back together. It happens sometimes, actually; I would have warned you both."

"What happens?"

"Spontaneous helpless crying, often for no reason anyone can explain."

"She has reason—"

"Of course she does, and for the most part she's kept them bottled up, living with two men for Heaven's sake. Sorry."

John shrugged and carried the tray into Maggie's sitting room.

"Sorry," Leslie said. She had taken off her mask; her eyes were red and puffy. The medical part of John's brain wondered how well her almost certainly compromised sinuses drained these days. Ah, God, her nose.

"Maggie says it happens sometimes—"

"Not to me—"

"All the more reason you should be aware that it does happen, so you can respond well for your recipient," said Maggie, taking control of the teapot. "Do you take sugar, Lesley?"

"I don't usually but I'll have two this time, ta."

"Sensible." Maggie prepared Lesley's tea and gave it to her.

"I wasn't planning to do this for anyone but myself," Lesley said. "That doesn't make me any more eager."

"Your Nightingale's recovering from a gunshot sound, though, isn't he?" asked Maggie.

"I can't imagine him wanting this, since he really doesn't believe in any of it," said Lesley. "You saw how he was the other night, John. Unless I sneak up behind him, and that doesn't seem right."

"It's not," said Maggie. "We ask if they want reiki, if they mind if we try to offer them healing; we don't impose. Though sometimes I've found it just turns on before it's crossed my mind. Some people have strong objections to anyone messing with their auras at all."

"Can't say I blame them," said Lesley.

"You know more about this, John, don't you? Medical ethics?"

"If someone comes to the surgery they are usually already asking for our help," said John. "I've heard nurses ask people in hospital if they mind if the nurse tries to help them with their hands. And I think the chaplains just lump it in with praying with them, which seems a bit odd if they were going to do the full-body assessment you just showed us."

"That's the ideal; most of us are far more informal. Since reiki is only part of my life and work as a witch, I usually end up grabbing people's hands for a few minutes," said Maggie. "I ask when I can, when permission doesn't already seem to have been implied. But your patients are asking for bog-standard NHS-certified Western medicine, which etheric healing certainly is not, so asking before you do reiki on them would be preferable—if you have time to explain it, which I gather many doctors don't, let alone five to fifteen minutes to spend mostly in silence. And then in the reiki tradition dating from Dr. Usui himself, it's said people should pay for treatment so they will value it, which goes against the Western tradition of 'freely you have received, freely give'."

"You charged us," Lesley pointed out.

"For two afternoons' time, and at a discount," Maggie said. "Because I don't often get doctors—nurses, yes, but a doctor's training doesn't usually teach humility—or police officers who are open-minded enough to inquire." She smiled ruefully. "That being said, I end up giving most people a discount for some reason or other, because I believe it's important to let as much of this energy loose as I can."

They spent another hour practising on one another (John was cautious with Lesley at first, but her expressed desire not to 'sob like a schoolgirl' again seemed to protect her) and on Maggie. If John were to have believed that he could sense auras, he would have said Maggie's was stronger and far less jagged than what he hadn't felt emanating from Leslie. But he rested his hands on her shoulders and pretended to open to whatever good there might be floating at large in the cosmos, and once again, felt profoundly relaxed.

Then Maggie sent them around her flat to try using reiki to sense things other than humans. It was weirdly entertaining. One of Maggie's cats was receptive to his efforts; the other gave him a look of such hauteur he didn't even try. Lesley called from the kitchen, "Maggie, the tomatoes seem good, but I think the fish has gone by."

"That's very likely; I bought it last week. Right, then; do you want to come back tomorrow, and I'll give you the second degree?"

"That sounds a bit worrying," John said.

"No, nothing of the sort," Maggie promised. "More of an 'in for a penny, in for a pound' sort of thing."

They agreed to meet again the next day, and John and Lesley left the warm flat for the murky late afternoon chill outside. "Do you want me to see you home?" John asked.

"I'm fine," she told him. "Thanks, anyway. That was really strange and I didn't much like it, but I feel all right now. See you tomorrow!"

John called Greg Lestrade. "We still on?" He and Greg saw one another every couple of weeks; John had less of a sense that Greg was checking up on him than he had been in the autumn. It was a good sort of friendship.

"Yeah, not too bad today. I can get away a bit early if you want to meet sooner."

"Great." It wasn't quite a gastropub, but they did better food than many. Maggie had suggested they might want to eat lightly and with more attention to nutrition than usual, but John found the idea of a pint of bitter strongly in line with his medical inclinations. And the company was soothing; he was fond of Greg. That didn't mean he was eager to explain what he'd been doing that day. Greg made it easy, as it turned out.

"So my work lately's been sordid and sad and not very interesting," he told John.

"Nothing above an eight?" Sherlock's presence (his absence) was thickly around everything they said, which made it easier; no thoughtful pauses, they just went ahead and mentioned him.

"God, no, nothing above about a five. What about you? What did 'Constable Grant' want with you?" Greg needed no air quotes to make the title highly suspicious.  
>"Invited me to dinner with him and his DI," John said.<p>

"At the Folly? What's it like inside?"

"Pretty much what you'd expect from the outside. High ceilings and panelling and very good food. You've never been there?"

"It's not the kind of place other coppers go, if they can avoid it. The DIs in Belgravia, maybe, but Seawoll starts to steam if anyone outside his nick mentions them or the 'm' word. We don't like to talk about it."

"Apparently not, I'd never heard there was a branch of the Met that did magic. Though it's about the last thing I'd ever have expected to hear Sherlock talk about, so no wonder there."

"In that, if nothing else, the rank and file agree with him…Did you see anything, well, weird?"

John wasn't ready to tell him about Mother Thames, or Ravensbourne, or the troll; and Greg didn't actually seem to want to hear anything too strange. "Not at dinner. I was doing a spot of first aid for a homeless man and Peter turned out to be a handy man with a light, though."

"I've heard about those. You know, no one'd been assigned to that unit in fifty years before he turned up. And I hear there's another young constable there, who's supposed to be on medical leave?"

"Yeah, PC Lesley May. She's very nice."

"She was badly injured in that mess at Covent Garden last autumn, right?"

"Her face is a mess, but other than that she seems to be doing well. We're doing a reiki workshop together."

"That has to be the cleverest first date strategy I've heard in a while."

"No, actually, it's about safety in numbers. She's more than 20 years younger than I am, Greg!"

"And I still say she could do much worse. And it's the only reason I can see you doing something that…" Greg trailed off.

"Empirically void? New Age Eastern woo-woo?"

"I don't know that I'd be quite that harsh, but yeah, that. You're not going to become a homeopath on us, are you, John?"

"God, I hope not. No. I really like reproducible results."

"So how—?"

"I was dared by someone who had just done something remarkable to my shoulder. The one I was shot in."

"I keep forgetting that."

"I wish I could. It's not that bad, actually, most days, but this woman put her hands on it and it felt…really good. And she said I could learn to do similar, and one thing led to another."

"So are you dating this other woman?"

"No! Just an acquaintance."

"I dunno, people putting their hands on you… a woman whose dare you took. Is this one too young, too?"

"No idea," John said, remembering Raven's unlined face and unfathomable eyes.

"But she's teaching you?"

"No, that'd be Maggie Armitage, who, before you ask, is probably thirty years older than I am."

"Oh, her? Good! I've met her a few times. She works with the old duffers at Mornington Crescent sometimes."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Peculiar Crimes Unit. Stuff that's less dodgy than the Folly. Mostly."

John looked at his friend. "How many special units for weird does the Met have?"

"As many as we need. Well, not quite." Greg drew on his beer. "We don't solve everything, as you know… . So I gather you're not exactly at ease with the laying on of hands."

"No, I never thought I'd be doing it. And I'm not comfortable at all with something going on and no science to back it up."

"Funny. We always thought you were the heart and he was the brain."

"I LIKE science. I took three A-levels before I even started training. I did most of my science at work and he did his on the kitchen table, but you never thought we were on different sides, did you? "

"You sounded like it when you'd rate him for being an insensitive bastard. Which he richly deserved, a lot of the time." Greg looked at John. "They do reiki in regular hospitals, yeah?"

"Yeah, but it's not one of the itemised treatments. I didn't think about it as long as everything else that _needed_ doing was getting done. But I'd never felt anything like it, either. I don't think it's likely to replace PT but maybe along with?"

"Sometime we're not at a pub you can try it on me, if you want," Greg said. "I have this—"

"DON'T tell me, if I can feel it out I'll know the worst—"

"I know your training is in science, yeah, and God knows what the army taught you on top of that, but don't worry so much. Just think of it as part of bedside manner, or counselling, whatever they taught you about taking care of patients instead of taking care of illness."

"That's what I'm telling myself. Like not looming over children and using simple words instead of medical Latin as much as I can. Just another friend human move."

"Are you afraid you're going to go off the deep end and move to India?"

"Not really." John thought about it. "I think if people hear I'm doing reiki or Therapeutic Touch or whatever kind of, of witchcraft, they'll just take it as one more sign I've gone off the rails. I got enough of that when Sherlock was alive but there was compensation for it then."

"And God knows he was loud enough he made you look nicely normal and commonplace, if you didn't look very closely. What do you care about being 'on the rails', John? You aren't made for it. Everything I know about you—you get sick and miserable when you have to behave the way you think people are supposed to behave."

John stared at him. Greg looked deliberately unfazed.

"Look, I'm an officer of the Queen's Peace, and I like it when people manage to live a nice humdrum routine; it's easier to figure out when they snap. But not everyone's cut out for a quiet life just inside the North Circular. You keep acting like you want that, dated all those nice women, but you don't. Hell, do people who want a quiet sensible life join the army?"

"Maybe not," John admitted.

"We've been worried about you—the people who know you, Mrs. Hudson for certain—and weird as the Folly is, at least they aren't the same as you trying to pretend to be a mild-mannered GP. I hadn't pegged you for auras and spiritual healing but maybe it makes sense. More sense than pretending you want nine-to-five and football on Sundays."

But I did want that, John thought; I just also wanted chases through warehouses and Sherlock making ridiculous deductions about the referee and ruining the ends of whatever I was trying to read. He looked surreptitiously at his hand—seemingly the same as ever—and wondered if the pulse he felt in his palm was really any different from what it had been the day before.


	4. Also Gazes Into You

"So here you are for Grade Two Reiki, probably all you'll ever need unless you want to make it more than a hobby," said Maggie the next day. "Did you sleep well?" She paused to look at them; it wasn't a rhetorical question.

"Like a brick," John admitted. "More soundly than usual."

"I dreamed," said Lesley. "I never remember my dreams, but I know there was a lot of running."

"People have all sorts of reactions: being feeling too energised to sleep at all, visions of some kind in their sleep. A change in the way things look, even. For some people, the second degree makes a bigger difference to their inner life than the first. I hope you'll let me know if you have any strong response to today's attunement. Some teachers believe it's important to wait a week or a month or longer, seeing how you respond to the first degree, to let being open to reiki sink in. If you were from different backgrounds we might do that, but I know I don't have you for long, and I think you'd both prefer to explore on your own. Did either of you do any reiki on anyone else?"

"Peter said it felt warm and that was about it, but Molly our housekeeper came and watched. She ran off when I asked if she wanted me to do her," said Lesley. "I did it to myself and it felt warm. like when someone's done it at the hospitals. Didn't burst into tears, either."

"Were you worried that you would?" Maggie asked.

"A bit, but that never happened the other times or I wouldn't have been interested in learning it for myself."

"It doesn't happen to people often, but when I've seen people crying like that it's always been a kind of sudden-onset. It was brave of you to go on anyway."

"Does anyone ever—I dunno, speak in tongues or anything?" Lesley asked.

"Not in my experience, no," said Maggie. "I shouldn't think glossolalia would be a very common reaction for anyone who wasn't used to it already. I don't know how many Charismatic Christians would be willing to try reiki in the first place, but that might just be my prejudice speaking. How about you, John?"

"My landlady has an arthritic hip," John said, "so when I told her what I'd been up to yesterday she asked if I would try some reiki on that. She said it felt quite nice, but I'm never sure she wouldn't say that about a poke in the eye. She's very sweet but not a reliable informant."

"I suppose you can't be blamed for it, but you do seem unable to take anything pleasant at face value," Maggie commented.

"I like things that I understand, particularly if I'm the one supposed to be doing them," said John. Lesley made an noise of general agreement.

"I can't blame you for that at all, but…there's so much that _isn't_ pleasant that we don't understand. I'm not saying you shouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth, but perhaps you might wait until after you get to know one another a bit. Your landlady's hip, John, how did it feel to you? Any different from any other joint?"

"I don't know," he said. "If I say 'yes, it did feel different,' and I try to describe it, it's going to sound a lot more definite than it really was. Anything I did feel was like trying to grasp something I saw out of the corner of my eye."

"You might consider keeping notes, just for yourself, with as many layers of caveat as you want, and see if your perceptions get refined or more definite over time. A reiki blog."

John thought that was much less likely than, say, his blogging scene-by-scene analysis of Doctor Who, but held his peace.

"Right, then," Maggie changed gears. "Three symbols to learn, and I do mean learn. Not that you can't find them on the Internet, but …" She explained what the symbols were for as they drew them.

The first looked like a watch spring, which was easy, and fit with the meaning Maggie assigned to it: unblocking, opening to more. Cosmic rays, John thought, all kinds of rays bumping electrons out of their shells, inviting good cells to go rogue. It was so much easier, likelier, for thing to bump into disorder than there were some collisions that mended rather than marred. He drew his spiral neatly.

The second one reminded John of a cartoon or a modern, minimal head and torso: a diva, perhaps, full of the emotion the sign was supposed to give access to, for deeper healing, breaking addictions. And finding things, like biscuits in a stranger's kitchen, or your keys.

"But doing anything to focus your attention helps; visualising the thing you've misplaced sharpens your search image," Lesley protested. "Or listening to music while you study and humming it during the exam, that's just common sense. Not magic or hidden wisdom from the East."

"Things can be both," said Maggie. "You're discounting something just because it's familiar. One definition of the kind of magic most people do—not you Isaacs—is 'the art of changing consciousness at will.' Which sounds like weak sauce until you try it. And so many things we do now were magic a hundred years ago, because we knew they worked but not why. Advertising is nothing but trying to change _your_ consciousness at _their_ will, and they use any subliminal thing they can find. From a mother telling her child 'All better now' to a doctor saying 'Take these for a week and let me know,' we all use the power of our own convictions and whatever authority we're given to produce an effect in the other person's mind that will change how their bodies feel." She took a deep breath. "There, I've just deliberately altered my respiration to calm my nervous system. And it works. I could talk about stress hormones, but you'd say it was 'just' medical science."

"All those things make sense," Lesley maintained.

"Only if you've been taught that they do, and why—"

"And if, for whatever reason, you were taught poorly, you'll believe almost anything," John said. "I hear ludicrously wrong explanations all the time; it comforts people to have a reason for their illness that makes more sense to them than poor diet and bad luck. Or just bad luck. People would rather have a completely wrong explanation than none at all." He had hours of examples; the one about vaccines causing autism the top of his list.

"One of the recurring tragedies of human psychology," agreed Maggie. "The minority of your choice poisoning your well. Could we go on, so we can get to the attunement? Then you'll be in a better place to look at this empirically."

For the third symbol, which was several kanji-like characters long, John listened to Lesley mutter "Little house with a sword; top hat with a feather; IF; tent…" She hesitated.

"Lunatic ghost," John said helpfully, and her eyes grinned at him through the holes in her mask.

"This is the one for distance healing, in space or time. Sometimes it's helpful to recall an event and send reiki to the people involved—" Maggie broke off at their polite incredulity. "Look, this is what you wanted to be taught, and what I was taught, and I am not lying when I say some people find it helpful in clearing up the effects of past trauma. There's more than one kind of psychotherapy that involves returning to the event; I know I don't have to tell you to be careful what you ask people to do. And you don't have to tell someone you're sending reiki to the worst day of their lives. Though that helps some people, just to know they aren't dealing with the car crash or whatever alone."

"But they did," said Leslie.

"But they aren't now," Maggie replied. "You can't have it both ways, that there's some natural benefit to knowing someone's trying to heal you and then say that knowing someone's trying to make it less awful _then_ doesn't matter in the present. And if—I'm only saying _if_—there's some real gauze being applied to the wound in the past…that might help with the scars in the present."

John's mind had already tripped and fallen to a patch of pavement outside 's, but he tried to keep his expression blank. Maggie's eyes flickered over him anyway.

Lesley missed the exchange. "Fine, I can see that, I guess, but distance in space? You're saying I can work on my gran's arthritis in Essex from here?"

"I'm saying that, yes. I take it this camel is too large to swallow?" asked Maggie. Lesley looked blank. "This idea?"

"How is this even different from 'praying' for someone?"

"It isn't, except that you're using fibre-optic cable instead of two tin cans and a string," said Maggie. "Well. Unless you're a saint, or something. Any reiki we do we always do with an intention toward 'wholeness and the greatest good of the individual', and if that isn't the same as including a codicil for 'if it be Thy will', I don't know what is."

"But—" said Lesley, words failing her. She looked at John. "You tell her."

He shook his head. "I'm just here for the means. You're not going to settle this argument anytime soon. I'll try it, and see if it helps. Medicine's always been more pragmatic than pure science. I'd use prayer, if it worked for the patient; I'm not proud."

But it was clear they had come to the end of Lesley's ability to suspend her disbelief. She sighed as she made sure she could draw the symbols and say the words. John drew them neatly, trying to still his internal critic. Which wasn't Sherlock, for a change; John's own sceptic was well up to the job.

Once again they tried to slow their chattering minds as Maggie drew symbols on their heads and their hands.

John wasn't sure whether to be disappointed or relieved that no scales fell from his eyes when he opened them. It was the same as it had been at his confirmation, twenty years and more ago: willing for epiphany but betting on mundane, and he wasn't wrong.

"Right, now, envision the first two symbols and mantras before you intend to give one another reiki," Maggie told them.

John and Lesley looked at one another. "You go first," she told him.

John raised his eyebrows at Leslie. "Are you all right with this?"

"You're fine, it's myself I'm not sure of," she told him. "Do your worst, John."

"I'd rather you consider it his best," said Maggie, "and only somewhat 'his' in any case. The practitioner is just the shape of the container."

The jaggedness he'd thought he felt the day before around her face was still 'present,' but subdued. John carefully laid his hands on the unscarred skin above Lesley's ears, spoke the words and drew the pictures in his mind. If he believed it, she was drawing strongly on whatever his palms were offering. It was still relaxing. They rested in it until the blotting-paper seemed not to be absorbing so much; John 'smoothed' around Lesley's head and stepped back.

"Well?" asked Maggie.

"I think," said Lesley, "that it feels different from my point of view, but I can't really say how."

Maggie looked at John. He shook his head. "It feels exactly the same," he said. "But that's interesting, because if I were trying to delude myself I'd be doing a better job."

Maggie rolled her eyes, and John and Lesley switched places. For someone who didn't believe in the niceties, John thought, he was tense. He wanted to find himself sobbing no more than Lesley did, and he knew his own emotional state was still precarious. He had cried enough for Sherlock and his losses in Afghanistan already—at least he hoped so—and even the pretence of a light into his emotional jungles was far more frightening than any attempt at physical healing. It must have shown on his face.

"Do you trust me?" Lesley asked softly.

John shook his head. "No one, really."

She grinned. "We're perfect together, you know. Don't worry, John, I'll be gentle."

It didn't feel any different from the day before, John was happy to report; not that he was likely to go poking at the sad empty place in his soul. Perhaps later he'd make an effort in his own direction, but it was much easier to operate on an unconscious subject, and John wasn't sure anyone he knew would admit to having emotional injuries.

But both he and Lesley relaxed as fears for their balance of mind proved groundless; neither they nor Maggie were swept into unseemly display. The cat who had accepted his advances the day before swatted at him when he tried the rocket-powered reiki with the symbols. Perhaps cats didn't want to become any mellower. Maggie discussed experiments reiki enthusiasts had tried on plants, and animals, lost gloves, and the balky ignition systems of ageing automobiles; Lesley snorted.

"That's pretty much it, then," Maggie said. "There's a healing group who meet here first Thursdays, if you ever want to, and of course I'm here any time you want to talk. I'll email you next week and next month or if I think you you're causing a disturbance in the Force—no, not really, but a bit like that, all right? Humour an old witch and keep in touch." They nodded and agreed; it sounded like the end of any weekend workshop in John's experience of continuing education.

"I have to hurry," Lesley said. "Another essay to write. Thanks again, John. Good-bye, Maggie." They heard her steps clatter away down the stairs.

"Not likely to see her again," Maggie remarked. "John, I think you have questions you didn't want to ask in front of her. Tea?"

"Please, yes." John was caught between his scepticism and her friendliness and evident common sense. He followed her into the kitchen. The cats, sensing that he was back in exoteric space, rubbed at his ankles.

"You've both been through such a lot," Maggie said, filling the kettle. "Thanks for giving me a chance to do something. I was so glad when they cleared your friend's name. Such rubbish, the newspapers. I don't know how many people have tried sending reiki to the dead, but I've never heard it hurt anything."  
>John opened his mouth and closed it again almost immediately. Maggie continued with the entirely ordinary ritual of making tea, placing it in front of John, and leaving him space.<p>

"I was raised Roman Catholic," he said, finally.

"Does that make it easier or harder to think about?"

Walking home from the Tube to 221B, John wished with all his heart that people—himself—could cure with a touch. He could just about remember the Bible stories, which were short on follow-up. As well as the inadequacy of the samples and the non-scientific nature of the reporting, they all concerned faith in Jesus Christ, who was a really decent bloke with some very odd fans, in John's opinion. If there were no atheists in foxholes, there were also very few evangelicals in ORs. At least who talked about it. It was much easier to believe A Son of God™ could do that sort of thing than Anyone Ordinary™. Though it would put paid to being Anyone Ordinary™, wouldn't it? You'd be morally obligated and it would turn into that scene from Jesus Christ Superstar…Still. He'd taken the lessons and if Raven twitted him he'd offer what he had. And if anyone else…?

"Hello, dear. I've made scones. Tea?" Mrs. Hudson greeted him.

"Yes, please," John said. He took off his coat and followed her into the familiar kitchen, familiar scents in the air.

"How was your workshop? You just had the one more day?"

"That's right." He took the teacup she gave him, grateful for the warmth. "I don't really know. We learned magic symbols and now we're supposed to be able to heal over space and time."

"You make it sound like Doctor Who."

"It feels that way. Why should it be harder to believe that than anything else about it?"

"You're a very practical person, dear." Mrs. Hudson finished wrapping the rest of the scones in clingfilm and put them aside, joining John at the table. "What sort of space and time?"

"Any."

"Well, stay over there and do me, then. If it's not impolite to ask while you're eating; finish your scone first."

John swallowed his mouthful and put his hands in his lap, cleared his mind and closed his eyes. He drew the signs inside his head and said the words under his breath, thinking of the woman across from him. So sweet and sentimental and strong and deliberately harmless. But not ineffectual by any means. Thought of her hip and shoulders, worn robust joints, delicate skin; muscles and ligaments. He'd had his hands on her physical shoulders the day before, so he recalled that, put intention into the memory, willing for it to be 'turbo-charged', as one of the articles he'd read put it. It was more than all right to dwell a moment in his affection for her, particularly easy as the taste of butter and sugar and raisins lingered in his mouth.

If nothing else he was getting some facility in a kind of meditative state, which, he knew well enough—empirically—was good for him. Bit strange to be doing something for himself while allegedly healing someone else—John recalled his mind before it wandered completely out of sight. He gave the reiki a few more heartbeats before drawing a line under the moment, and opened his eyes. Mrs. Hudson sat equally self-contained on her side of the table; then her eyes fluttered open and she looked back at him.

"Very nice. My hip's been better today, you know." She lifted a hand and forestalled any response. "I know, John, not that it proves anything. But does it really matter, as long as my hip hurts less?"

"If it _has_ helped, even pretending that reiki had anything to do with it, then that's good—"

"It's not like you're going to try and faith-heal away all my money, dear."

221B received him as it did these days, with the comfort of a worn and perfect slipper. Absent flatmate was absent, a fact that only sneaked up to nip him occasionally; not a constant ache. The day had left him oddly reluctant to settle into an evening of telly; he made a small fire in the grate and sat down in the surprising comfort of the modern chair that had been Sherlock's, now switched place with the worn upholstered chair that had been his own. John looked at the skull. An unknown unknown if ever there was one, whatever minor forensics they'd practiced. The late-nineteenth-century gentleman didn't seem to long for John's touch.

He had a kind of new-toy desire to play with the reiki powers, whether he really believed he was doing anything outside his own mind or not. But neither desire nor really the stomach to revisit the memory of Sherlock's fall—regardless of how much 'healing' that day could use. The days after were a blur, coalescing into speechless evenings with Harry's variations on chicken soup, Anglo-Indian curry, and spag bol. Good memories.

Right, healing a time: what about the confrontation of Harry's sobriety-before-last? That had been painful and loud and horrible in every way. Not a place he wanted to spend any time. Healer-types in fantasy novels were made of sterner stuff, perhaps, transmuting the lead into gold without wanting to throw up.  
>Without any prior searching, his mind flicked onto the evening of Sherlock's arrest, when Sherlock had said something like "You're worried they're right when they think I'm a fraud—"<p>

There was a moment that could use some healing. Some smoothing out, some way to relax the tightness in his chest and guts when John remembered it. With a shrug—a detached suggestion to the ghost of the God of his childhood that he could use a hand, here,—John drew the characters in his mind, said the words that seemed to have too many different translations, and thought of the two of them in that moment.

"No one could fake being such an annoying dick all the time," John had said. He'd tried to defuse some of the tension, told the truth in the least fulsome or sentimental way he knew how; had known Sherlock heard him telling the truth.

What the hell had Sherlock meant by saying that, anyway? Of all the people on earth he should have known John was his strongest supporter. Stronger than Sherlock himself, some days; John never had the bleak moods, the crippling doubt that came on Sherlock sometimes: fear that his faculties were deserting him like that night in the pub on Dartmoor; fear that nothing would ever interest him again. Maybe fear that if he were not interested himself, he'd be uninteresting, himself? But that night Sherlock had been wholly present, entirely engaged, watching and noting as Moriarty's web tightened around him.

John pulled his memory back to that moment in the flat, one of the last they had had together here. Right over there. Sherlock had smiled, hearing the depth of loyalty (of love) left unspoken (he must have done; he always heard things other people hadn't intended to tell him). John had paced and muttered and flicked on the TV news and turned it off again in revulsion, wondering even then what his friend had in mind.

What if John had stepped across the space between them and _asked_, 'What the hell are you planning?' Because Sherlock had had something in mind, something complicated and either very clever or terribly messy. Whichever: it had left John almost as broken as he had ever been.

"What were you playing at?" Memory-John asked Memory-Sherlock with Now-John's frustration. He thought of crossing the space between them, not shouting, but asking Sherlock softly and clearly. Would he have told John? Would he have admitted he and Moriarty and The British Government (at least a minor part of it) were playing a long game? Would he have said 'A little while and you shall not see me?' Did Sherlock know, then, that his death was in the cards?

And then Memory-John's arms were full of Sherlock, a moment of completely convincing approximation; Sherlock neither a bag of bones nor quite fleshy enough, points of his hips a little sharper than they should have been. "Better than when I first met him, anyway," John thought later. For this moment he and Sherlock were suspended like a drop between past and future, John's hand curled up into Sherlock's dark shining hair, Sherlock's arms drawing him close. A moment that had never happened; that might well have happened: perfect calm, equilibrium, peace. Fulfilment.

Some noise from the street, perhaps, recalled John to the present; his muscles weren't stiff, exactly, but it must have been minutes since he'd moved. His face was wet and he shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Half-hard. He'd never have relaxed that much holding Sherlock during their life together. He could imagine what Sherlock might have said, from his superiority and his snooty Neo-Platonist stiff-upper-lip Empire-chic disregard for the needs or knowledge of his body. Too much to hide, too much to lose, both of them; and what was that worth now? Ah, damn, not tears again. He let them fall, trying to get his breath; his throat unlocked in a minute. It would have been something, to hold Sherlock.  
>And maybe in that moment, he might have accepted—something— ? Comfort, support, unfailing loyalty. Anything John would offer?<p>

A few moments more, and John shook himself, stood up and paced around while the kettle boiled. Maggie seemed to have conditioned him: tea was the way to get back to normal consciousness. That was a fair description of the way everyone used it, really. The kettle sighed and clicked off. He poured water into the smallest teapot and wanted to hold Sherlock again.

He didn't think the magic? The self-hypnosis? of that moment's stillness was something he should be trying to recapture. Not tonight. Maybe a small drink and an entry in the journal where he tried to put the things he'd never post on his blog. Though the more personal something was, the more excuses John could find to avoid considering them in cold ink. He spiked his tea and opened the journal Harry had given him.

As far as embarrassment went, it was a dead heat between admitting New Age pseudo-science had given him anything he needed and accepting that embracing Sherlock filled more than organs than his heart. John was nearly as successful at overlooking inconvenient remarks from his transport as Sherlock. But even in his resolutely 'I'm-not-bisexual' days John hadn't been blind; Sherlock was at the very least a bit of all right. On the prowl, his attention focussed more intently on a clue than any stalker or paparazzo…elegance in action, all competence and grace and waiting strength. John had shoved aside what it might be like to be the focus of such a being's desire; it had seemed close enough to impossible those times he'd felt he had caught Sherlock's intellectual interest.

And John had said so many times that he wasn't gay.

His thoughts wandered off as he tried to write honestly, coming up with weird little off-track insights: he'd dated women while Sherlock was alive partly because he could (being neither in the army nor in hospital); partly because he wanted the excitement/normality of sex with a woman in peacetime (not in a war zone, not with someone who reminded him of the friends and lover he had lost there); partly because he would sometimes think he might have enjoyed a gentler, less jaggedly stimulating relationship than the high-octane up-like-a-rocket, down-like-a-rock that was life with Sherlock (which was frankly stupid, given the levels of, ah—crazy? Dynamism, yeah—that the women John knew were capable of).

And partly because he wanted to be the one admired, the one desired, the special one in a couple. Just sometimes.

He'd never realised what an egotist he was. Shit.

And finally, he'd bitten off the heads of anyone who suggested he and Sherlock were together not just because he wanted a quiet (therefore heterosexual, and wasn't that a stupid equation?) life, but because he'd rather disabuse people of their folly than have Sherlock sneer at the idea.

Though, he thought, taking deliberate careful breaths, Sherlock never had.

He sneered at everyone, John included, in the throes of self-doubt or perfect certainty, but John tended to think of those times as his friend on a bender, several sheets to the wind. When he hadn't been catastrophically depressed or high on his own brilliance or working (read: not the greater part of the time, all right? But a good chunk of their days together) Sherlock had been an amusing companion. Not even always dotty: charming. Had paid attention; often, even while they were working, he'd made sure John with his fussier transport had a chance to eat (sometimes even sleep!).

But he'd never bothered, to John's knowledge, to refute or even respond to the suggestion that they were a couple.

Possibly because steam would already have been coming out of John's ears by then, and there was no need.

It was hardly a new idea that John might have loved (and desired) and been loved (and desired) by Sherlock. Bloody Mycroft that very first night in 221B had asked about a happy announcement (had Sherlock ever been so besotted as to try to install a lover in his living quarters the way Mycroft had implied?).

Mrs Hudson had never believed anything else—John had always put that down to her affection for Sherlock and for the cosy/lurid portion of the paperback romance spectrum.

Polly, the webmistress of John's blog, had a keenly-honed filthy mind, but she never let him know if she directed it at him and Sherlock. Suspiciously careful, in fact. She had never asked, but he knew what kind of comments she pruned out of his sight (site). And probably sent to some other site maintained with loving attention to grammar and anatomical possibility, but out of his purview, anyway, thank God. She treated him openly as Sherlock's emotional widow, and he accepted that without comment.

But people without rose-colored goggles had said it, too. Greg Lestrade, who loved them both with the patience and exasperation of real friendship, had dared to suggest that Sherlock was more than fond of his blogger one night last spring. When John had been a different person and Sherlock had been alive. He'd never mentioned it since, unless you counted his gentleness with John's grief.

And just last month, Harry. The best Christmas they'd had together in thirty years, with ghosts of dead lovers and younger selves joining them around the Christmas tree. Prying open John's—no, she hadn't. She'd just been mostly kind, and disarmingly, contagiously honest. Apparently nearly four years had been long enough for John to try to live according to someone else's script. He hadn't known how much of himself he'd been censoring; it was still coming into view like a figure walking out of mist.

Opening that door from his past had blown all sorts of things into John's present: probably had left him vulnerable to expressing fealty to aquatic demigods; rethinking a huge proportion of his everyday observation (it was apparently true that men thought about sex a lot, even just in passing); was affecting his thoughts on menswear, for God's sake. When had he decided he needed to dress one way to pull women and than he had when he sized up men and women both? He'd dressed more sharply in his student days, he thought. Or was what he'd been wearing since becoming a civilian again just camouflage, not to attract anyone who might shatter his emotional retreat?

Obviously camouflage had not been entirely successful in protecting him.

And among all the coming to out to Harry and the memories of Jason there'd been a piece of information. He hadn't considered it, caught up in trying to open to the part of himself he'd closed off. Or been able to consider it before this moment.

Sherlock had told her he loved—desired and loved—John.

He'd already accepted that Sherlock had loved him enough to die for him. John shelved the self-exculpating 'for the three of us' for the moment-the possibly limited extent of 'die' was already pushed so far to the back of his mind it was a wonder how it kept edging back toward the light but he could NOT think of that—but that Sherlock would die for him? Not really a surprise. It was a measure of John's possible fucked-upness that dying for someone was not really an inconceivable gift. It looked larger in civilian life and in cold blood than in the heated moment, but it wasn't not exactly unprecedented or too extreme. Sherlock had been 'very loyal very quickly' to him as well. Whatever had drawn them to one another had been sealed in the cabbie's blood, Sherlock's silence colluding with his own. True, there'd been cups of drugged coffee and abandonments at crime scenes that would have made anyone but John second-guess himself. But in his deepest heart John had known Sherlock was his brother-in-arms. And Sherlock was entirely capable of dying for them because SHERLOCK thought it was best, not bothering to ask anyone else; his assessment of a situation was always and only the one that counted. Utter wanking bastard.

John would have said Sherlock would find dying easier than admit an irrational yearning; the inclination of his transport; a nagging from nothing so crystalline as a fact.

But Sherlock had loved him enough to ask advice from Harry of all people, hostile and sulky and broken and tenacious and probably a match for Sherlock at his bolshiest.  
>John was used to loving difficult people.<p>

And tomorrow would be the 29th of January.


	5. Not Bad as Mondays Go

He awoke to the diffident 'tchk' sound Polly had assigned her texts on his phone. The screen showed her icon and a single question mark. John sighed and rubbed his face. He had morning hours at Sarah's surgery and two hours of Continuing Education at Bart's in the afternoon. He clicked through to call his webmistress. "Really tentative, Polly."

"I didn't want to wake you."

"It was only another five minutes before my alarm." John yawned.

"You haven't had any tea yet, have you?"

"I haven't got out of bed yet."

"Well," said Polly cautiously, "if you were thinking of checking the blog right away this might be a good morning not to. "

"I've been thinking about him a lot anyway."

"Gene Wilder says he gets tired of people still telling him how sorry they are about Gilda."

There was a bit of a pause as John's still foggy mind parsed this. "People grieve at their own pace."

"Yes, and people should let other people have some peace and quiet."

"Thanks," said John. "You do know how grateful I am for what you do for me, don't you?"

"I'm enjoying the National Theatre membership very much, so, yes."

"You make it possible for me to appear more polite than I really am."

"Every Englishman's lifelong goal, isn't it? Or is that 'having someone bring them tea in bed'?" Polly wondered aloud. "But you're doing all right, generally? You haven't blogged in ten days."

"I'm fine," John assured her. "I'll figure out something to say."

They rang off with mutual expressions of goodwill and John put himself to face the day. Two years since he'd met Sherlock Holmes. Christ.

He considered the blog while he showered and shaved and made an egg on toast. Nothing, he felt, about the Folly, let alone the River goddesses; nothing for now about reiki. He stopped in the middle of a bite of egg. If there was ever a moment when it would make sense, he probably should mention that he was bi. His sexuality hadn't seemed to him like it ought to be anyone's business outside of a relationship, and it still didn't, but he knew there were enough people denying that anyone they knew could possibly be queer. Different from their idea of normal in any way. He considered the shape of Aelred's pupils again, and the unmistakeable authority of Mother Thames. They didn't know the half of it. (How fussy were the River goddesses about who slept with whom? would it be safe to ask? Would it ever be relevant?)

Anyway. It would be cowardly just to pop a bi flag quietly into one corner and let Polly deal with the consequences. Really unkind. Or maybe he was overestimating his own importance and there weren't any isolated teenagers reading it. Right.

He spent his time on the Tube trying to compose a text to Harry about the way she had complicated his life and how he was grateful, but he knew he ought to call her.

At Sarah's surgery, half an hour before their first appointment, he was in time to watch their ferocious receptionist unlock the door and turn on the lights. Joel was a 23 year-old white man of few words, who dressed better than any of the medical staff (though he was less likely to encounter projectile vomiting, so less to lose). Today Joel's nail varnish was medium grey with a thin red stripe. "John," he said, grasping John by the elbow. "Weekend?"

"Yes," said John. "Yours?"

"Aston fucking Villa."

"Team loyalty can cost you everything, you know."

Joel's shoulders and eyebrows indicated that they were all toys in the hand of Fate and filled the office kettle.

"Um," said John. "When you get a chance sometime today, can you print me out a bi flag? About so big?" He indicated half a sheet of A4.

Joel actually stopped bustling and looked at him. John looked back. "GOOD weekend?" Joel asked, finally.

John felt himself blush. "Sadly no, I just realised… you think anyone under 30 recognises that?" He indicated the discreet Safe Space logo on the wall over the rack of pamphlets.

"Could get a rainbow something-or-other."

"Talk to Sarah about it, maybe?"

"About what?" Sarah asked, sweeping in through the door clutching a coffee.

"Venti," said Joel, indicating her cup. "Hard weekend?"

"Long," said Sarah. "So, what is it?"

"John thinks our queer-friendly is out of date," said Joel, breaking into a full sentence.

"You're young, what do you think?" John asked.

Joel shrugged.

"Put up whatever you like that won't get us picketed," said Sarah, "and see you if can find something not too graphic about domestic violence that won't give the kiddies nightmares."

"That kind of weekend?" John asked, following her into her office. Sarah hung up her coat.

"Not really," she said, muffled. "Tell me again how lucky I am my mother's still with us."

"Mixed bag?"

"Not mixed enough. How are you?" Sarah's eyes dwelt upon him long enough for John to feel Examined.

"Very well, thank you. Really. And thank you. Really. What's new with your mum?"

Sarah permitted him to redirect the conversation. "She's not really old enough for me to feel as uneasy as I do about her short-term memory. I think I need to call up her GP and ask what her meds are like. Which she resents, and tells me how just because I'm a doctor doesn't mean I know EVERYTHING, and then...off to the races, again."

"You couldn't just look at her nightstand?"

Sarah made an incoherent noise of frustration. "And her medicine cabinet and the edge of the kitchen sink and the place she sits in the living room…I think she seeds the house with pill bottles before I visit. What are you staring at?"

Among the professional certifications and the well-child visit posters and the relaxing meadows was a watercolour rendition of the reiki spiral, the first of the symbols John had memorised the day before.

"You have the 'turbo-charge' reiki symbol on your wall."

"Yes, I do. And you recognise it today, but not any other time in the last couple years, so?"

"I did a Reiki One and Two workshop this weekend."

"I did the Master level six months ago. YOU, John?"

"I was dared—"

"Well, welcome to the soft and fuzzy side. Did you like it?"

"I think so, but I haven't really had time to find out." John doubted he would ask her the question most on his mind: Does using the third symbol give you quasi-mystical experiences seasoned with sex? "So do you use it on your patients, or…?"

"Sometimes. That picture's there mostly for people like you; if they recognise it then we can discuss adding it to their visit. There's never enough time, but even a couple of minutes…this one woman whose endometriosis has cleared up?" In response to John's lifted eyebrows, she shrugged. "She says so. You and I must talk."

But they could both hear the first patient arriving and checking in (loudly) with Joel. John went to his own room, hung up his coat, and took the last sips from his now-cooled coffee. Joel glided in with the freshly printed Bi flag, which he affixed to the washroom door. "Ever want to talk."

"You don't talk," John pointed out. "Not as a rule."

"Listen, though, can't I?"

Except for the one old man who glanced at the flag and then glared at John for the rest of his appointment—his wife was far more informative about his symptoms anyway—coming out at work had no immediate repercussions. In the weeks to come, John learned that more of his patients—at least the ones who commented on the small statement—had (or had once had) more queer relatives and friends than seemed statistically plausible, and that he could divert most of the discussions about whether bisexuals were just confused by telling them to continue it with Joel; "I'm here to listen to your problems, not to talk about myself," with a deep sincerity.

And he only needed to tell a few of them that it had nothing to do with Sherlock.

It was a bit of a rush to get from the surgery to the Pret near St. Bart's by half-twelve, but Mike Stamford waved to him from a table he'd secured. John put down his salad and roll and took off his coat. It was crowded and the thin sunlight coming through the windows made it warmer. "You're looking well," Mike said, his professional gaze raking over him. A hazard of the profession, John thought, waiting for Stamford's verdict. "Better than in November."

"I am feeling well, actually, thanks," said John. "It's been a hell of a year, but I think I've caught my breath again. If it isn't unwise to say that."

"I hope not," said Mike. "Bit of an anniversary, according to your blog."

"So it is. Two years today that I had coffee with you."

"I've been glad to have you around again; not many people I've known this long in town anymore. No one who knows my guilty undergraduate secrets."

"I don't think you have any," John said. "Unless you count the reason you don't drink gin."

"Thanks for bringing that up, I've been wondering whether this lot of students is stupider than we were—"

"About other things I'm sure they are—"

"I'm really glad to see you looking better," said Mike. He didn't hesitate as he continued, because he'd never thought obscurity was gentleness. "Sometimes I wondered if I'd done you any favour introducing you to Sherlock."

John repaid him in kind. "You probably saved my life."

"And how many times did he nearly get you killed?" Mike waved away a torn bit of memory. "Apart from the last thing, which you gave me to understand was Sherlock's way of keeping that from happening one last time." His voice dropped a bit. "You'll let me know when that's common knowledge, won't you? I still have students who are hurting and all I can do is tell them I don't think it was accusations of fraud or anything like it that—"

"—Pushed him over the edge." They winced. John went on. "Not yet; Mycroft thought the details would be released next year sometime." They were silent for a moment. "I miss him like hell," John said, "But running into you that day was the first good thing that had happened since before I was shot."

"I wondered at the time if you two might hit it off," Mike said, sadly it seemed. "But later I realised that was what you meant about not being the John Watson I'd known."

"We did hit it off," said John, confused. "I moved in with him a couple of days later."

"Not that way," said Mike. "I'm sorry, I know you don't like talking about it. But you seemed so happy while you were…experimenting in uni. Sorry."

"Oh," said John. The conversation rearranged itself in his head. "Oh, you meant like that. Mm. No, not like that, and you're right I wasn't open to it then. But that wasn't what I meant that day in the park; I meant the nerve damage and the limp" and the suicidal ideation. "I didn't even think about that when I was talking to you, though I can see why you thought I might've been."

"Anyway, I'm sorry to have brought it up. Not my business."

"It slipped my mind how long we've known each another, that's all." John moved his silverware around for a moment. "Okay, then, potted explanation?"

"You don't have to—"

"No, I want to. I think it's important." John stopped fiddling and looked at his oldest friend. "Right. Well. I was still experimenting, as you put it so delicately, when I went in the army, and then something happened, someone died—I mean, my lover got killed, all right?" He ignored the shocked sympathy on Mike's face and continued. "And I pretty much went off the whole thing, anyone at all for a bit. And then when I did start having a sex drive again, women seemed like a safer bet all around—have I said I wasn't thinking very clearly? Only at Christmas Harry told me to get my head out of my arse—"

"She's still—?"

"Actually, no, she's a lot better than she has been, possibly than she's ever been. We had a really good Christmas together, and we talked a lot. She hadn't known I was ever anything but her straight disapproving older brother." Whom Sherlock Holmes was in love with, but that was more than John wanted to share. "She made a good case that I was making myself crazier keeping part of myself in the closet. So I'm trying to remember, I guess, the man you knew when we were students. Except not the criminal mischief parts," John added, in an effort not to leave anything too heavy in the air.

Mike polished his glasses for a bit, all the same. " 'Be kind for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle,' " he said finally. "And the ones I knew about were hard enough. If you're saying this much, I suppose you must be better than you were that day in the park."

"I am," John said. "All in all. Much."

It was relaxing to sit in the lecture hall, the lights low. Not to have to talk. A bit strange to listen to some of the same specialists as he had when he was an undergraduate, but the material was more interesting now. Even the ob-gyn was more relevant after a couple decades of doctoring. He would always miss surgery, but the complexities of the human body were still fascinating and he was all right without seeing them suddenly, carelessly, routinely, torn by explosions. "You've seen a lot of injuries, violent deaths...bit of trouble too-" "-Enough for a lifetime-" Death and damage had drawn him and Sherlock together, but it hadn't been those that kept John living with through the snark and the unkindness and the diva-on-the-couch and all the other-wait, what was that about neuropeptides? John craned his neck to stare at his neighbor's notes. Christ, doctors really couldn't write clearly, some of them.

Afterward, John knew he'd be welcome to join the group that adjourned from the class to the pub, but he wasn't in the mood. It might be sensible for his career and his mental health to socialise with his professional peers when he could, but this wasn't the right day. And he avoided the pavement outside the Old Pathology Building for the same reason, not wanting to know if the impromptu shrine to Sherlock Holmes was celebrating a feast day. It would be like some bastard of a journo to stake it out just in case.

He had spent the weekend cooped up, and there was still an hour or so before sunset, and he loved London, and it had been awhile since he'd walked by the Thames. John set off upriver to see how far he could get before dark.

He was a little self-conscious: he wasn't looking for Mother Thames to come to him tonight; he didn't need her attention. His own attention, though, seemed to be altered: the homeless woman who nodded at him with a different kind of self-possession than Sherlock's networkers; the riffle on the water's surface that was entirely too long and too fast and too deliberate. He didn't need any perception beyond common sense to sneer at the tourists cowering away from a brightly-clad bunch of mostly black teenagers, their semi-posh accents adding to his impression of a flock of earthbound parrots. They moved a bit like a murmuration, too, shifting from a close little crowd to a string and then shifting direction, as some bellwether among them took notice of John and led them across the street toward him. She separated from the melée; it was Olympia. "Good afternoon, Captain Doctor Watson!" The teens behind her looked at him with very brief interest, turning back to one another and their phones.

"Good afternoon, Lady Miss Olympia," John replied, grinning back at her. The tourists looked scandalised that anyone respectable would respond to such a rabble and hastily tripped farther downriver.

Olympia pulled forward a girl of the same age, like her in face and form. "This is my sister Chelsea—"

"Pleased to meet you—"

They shook hands; Olympia seemed to be steering them toward formality. "Mum wants you to know we're having a bit of a party Friday night, she hopes you can make it—"

"Raven will let you know where—" interrupted Chelsea.

"But you don't have to dress up or anything—"

"What's the occasion?" John asked. They looked at him strangely.

"Cross-quarter day," said Olympia. They could see this meant nothing to him.

"Imbolc, innit?" said one of the boys from behind them.

"St. Brigid? Candlemas?" said the sisters.

Candlemas sparked some memory from John's childhood. "I didn't think you were Christian—"

"Well, hardly," said Chelsea. "Nor yet pagan—"

"Though a lot of our people are—"

"And Christian, Impy—"

"As though you can tell the difference, some of them—" Olympia tore herself away from the impending squabble with her sister. "It's astronomy, you don't have to believe anything: halfway from the solstice to the equinox."

"Anyway, it's a party, and we hope you will come."

"Barring an emergency, I should be able to," said John. "And you'll remind Raven—"

"She'll email you—"

"She might call—"

"Or text you—"

"See you Friday then—"

"Very nice to meet you, Doctor John!" Some other voices added a chorus of farewell as the milling group turned back into a skein going a definite direction; John waved back at them.

If Raven was involved at least there would be some people over sixteen, John thought. Probably not a disco or a rave.

He was leaning over a railing, wondering if he might see that riffle again—there were sturgeon in the river sometimes, weren't there?— when the edge of a woolen greatcoat caught his eye, and then he recognised the man wearing it. Not a sweeping, dramatic overcoat, but Nightingale wasn't wearing it for drama. It was the sort of coat a man of Nightingale's class would have worn fifty years earlier, that's all. He carried his own time with him like a bubble floating in the stream; the kind of old-fashioned (good) look John saw in black-and-white films. Not quite a generic face, not just generations of good breeding (inbreeding, some would say); probably not from quite such a dizzyingly entitled (perhaps literally?) status of society as Mycroft or Sherlock; certainly not from a family that placed value on being overbearing. Nightingale had struck him as a kind, decent sort of man: self-effacing, hard-working, noblesse-ly obliged; the kind of man you expected in a good World War One or Two novel, though a bit higher-class than most Nevil Shute heroes. That was likely, John thought, why he kept trying to put him in the first war, when so many of Nightingale's type had died out.

"Dr. Watson."

"Nightingale," said John, cutting to the chase. "I'm walking. Care to join me?"

"Just walking?"

"I often walked by the river before; I can't tell whether I'm drawn here more or not, since."

Nightingale nodded.

"And you?" John asked. "Just walking?"

Nightingale nodded again. "It's beautiful here." They gazed at the agglomeration of three and a half centuries of architecture, Empire won and lost, finance and expedience and greed and greenbelt. "Vital, at least."

John nodded. They paced gently in silence toward Westminster for awhile. They they stopped and leaned over the railing. The last of the weak January sun glittered. "It isn't that the city doesn't change, over the years. But the river persists, whether it changes on the banks or not," Nightingale said. "Comforting, I suppose. Such a lot of change."

"It's changed more than enough for me in the last twenty years. Must be worse for you, from what Peter said." Let him know he was known.

Nightingale looked tired. "More than four times that since I came to London," he admitted. "I don't like going back to my home, it's unrecognisable."

"Family?"

"No. Not anymore."

"Me, either, except for my sister." The water flowed, meters below them. Tide was coming in.

"How did you decide to enter the army?" Nightingale asked. "Was it a family tradition?"

"Not on purpose. My grandfather died in France just before Dunkirk; that didn't make my father more inclined to service by any means. But he died years before I decided to join up." John hesitated. "I wanted more than I was doing then, too. I romanticised it, of course: not the reason for the war, but the reasons for going patch up the people in it. I don't regret it, but I wouldn't advise most people to go, now."

"I don't think I would have made the choice you did, either," said Nightingale. "But it wasn't really a choice, for your grandfather or myself."

"I know," John said. "Thank you, though. Just the same. I'm glad we won."

"I suppose we did," said Nightingale. "Of course we did. We saved England, and quite a bit of Europe, whatever that's turned out to signify. But that doesn't mean we survived; not my bit of the army."

John regarded the water, hoping something would allow Nightingale to continue talking, but the older's man's eyes were closed and his lips tightened into a line. Tightly-buttoned and tightly-wound, far better than Mycroft at hiding it.

"When Sherlock fell," John said slowly, "I lost someone who shone brighter in my life than anyone I've ever known. Ever even seen. We weren't lovers, but we loved one another pretty well, on the whole. I'd known him for less than eighteen months. In Afghanistan I lost people I'd served with the better part of ten years; some of them I knew and loved as well as I knew how." " He thought again of Neal and Arjun and Jason, Marina and Jack and Howard— "I can't imagine what it was like to lose people whom you'd known for—what? Since you were twelve?"

Nightingale nodded. "Some for longer than that."

"I can't imagine what it's like to be in a pitched battle; the informal ones were overwhelming enough. But I know what it's like to lose something you can't even explain to someone who wasn't there, to try to carry losing a life, as well as your friends, into whatever you're supposed to be doing afterward." He put the statements out there, wondering what Nightingale would make of them. If he would respond.

"And you came back from the war wounded," Nightingale said at last. "Badly enough to ruin doing what you loved. Do you understand about the waking up, and the emptiness, and the resignation? Do you understand about the realising the uselessness of everything you've ever learned?"

"Yes, I do," John said. "I left a big part of what I loved in Afghanistan, that kind of medicine. Even though I'd learned how much medicine couldn't do, how trauma medicine often wasn't enough to matter—losing the ability to do it…." he shrugged. "Fortunately I like general practice more now than I did when I was a student."

"I can still do amazing things; Peter tells me that often enough." Nightingale said. "But so could the others, of course, and they were gone, and fireballs hadn't been enough."

"Sherlock got me to the point where I could cope with the losses—all of them—from the war. I suppose having his friendship got me to a place I could begin to contain losing him, too. But I'd be in much worse shape now without people who have some idea of, of what knowing him was like. And I don't think you had anyone."

"No," said Nightingale, as though he were following the mess of compassion and understanding-he-did-not-understand that John was trying to trace out. "No. Right afterward, there were a few of us, but most of the men I knew left the magical world to retreat to something…less vile, as though the Art itself had been stained by its misuse. People ran far enough not to be found—much easier in the '50's than now.

"When I look back at it, I was in shock for the first few years. Possibly no worse than any other soldier…I dislike special pleading, but magicians' work is largely mental, or perhaps spiritual…and our injuries are sometimes hard for conventional medicine to appreciate. We had never really developed any means of dealing with…magical exhaustion, any kind of thaumaturgical shell-shock, perhaps, for lack of a better term.

"And after the first few years, most of the others who survived that battle were dead. Exposure to the chemicals, exposure to the…malignancy that was unleashed. I don't know why I was spared. I tried not to think about that. And it wasn't just the British wizards; it seemed the war killed off all the European magical traditions we had known of. Not the only culture that was wiped out by any means, I know." Nightingale fell silent for a moment. "I just…people laugh about it now, 'carrying on'."

"It's an underrated virtue," John said.

"I did it for years. Nothing more than that; I felt there was nothing more I could do."

"That's hard. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise."

"It's not enough. I let it go too long. There must have been other young people—well. There were; we're dealing with one of them now, gone very bad. I was a poor steward."

"You know very well," John told him, "that there's no point in regretting the past, once you have some idea how not to do that again in the future."

"I thought I'd die like everyone else. I thought if I carried on long enough, I'd be able to rest. I didn't see that I was resting then." Nightingale hesitated. "You're a doctor, people always need doctors, do they not? Almost no one knows what I do. It's for the best, of course. But I grew up among equals, people and their families who understood. A… specialist culture, where I didn't need to explain or plead for belief. The Met were more accepting then. So many activities I didn't need to negotiate, to justify. I just did the job," Nightingale said. "In Newton's time, and before it, of course, alchemy was sometimes called 'The Great Work'. I…it was everything I had ever wanted, everything. Everything I'd time for. Not for any reason in particular, until the war; just because the work was beautiful. I loved it as I have never loved anyone, not my friends, not my masters. We loved one another within the craft, with the craft, with the perfect joy and perfect trust that came from being aimed in the same direction. I don't think Peter will ever understand that. I can't give him the fellowship, the moments of camaraderie…I feel like I am trying to teach dry leaves pressed in a book when I learned the craft in a garden."

He shook his head. "I'm not the kind of man who was chosen to teach. The masters… . Some of them were as dotty as any don you ever knew, and some of them were half-broken, but they had a gift for passing the Great Work along. And I'm alive, and they aren't. I worry so much for Leslie and Peter. They don't know anything, and I am barely adequate to tell them what I know."

"They don't know that, either," John said. "I know doing the best you can is hollow some days, but…something is giving Leslie the courage to carry on."  
>"Delusion, I'm afraid. She hopes magic can mend what it has marred."<p>

"Don't knock delusion," John said. "You know about hopelessness. Delusion will get you to a place where you can walk again. It's more comfortable than duty. Is she good at what she does?"

"She was, I am told repeatedly by her former superior, the best candidate of her police training year and more. She's certainly more focussed than Peter. She started nearly a year after him, but she's catching up very quickly. If I had ever any doubts about the classical training of women I would have rejected them by now."

There were many things John wanted to know, and hoped sometime he could ask. But the moment with Nightingale felt precious. "The best thing you can do for them, you know, is to take care of yourself. You're not replaceable, whether you feel up to the job or not."

"Doctor Walid keeps telling me that," Nightingale said. "I took a shot to the lung last summer, just before Leslie's injury. I don't believe he's aware how much faster I heal than he thinks I should. One of the perks of ageing backwards."

"Are you sure he means that sort of healing?" John asked. He had no grounds for discussing whether a man's friend should be his physician. "You've been describing what I was taught to call moderately severe, long-term depression. And shell-shock, combat stress—do you still feel that's an appropriate diagnosis?"

Nightingale hesitated, considering. "No," he said. "I sleep well enough now, haven't found myself particularly shy of loud noises in a long while."

"Flashbacks? Mood swings? Trust issues? Hypervigilance?"

"Almost certainly not _enough_ vigilance. But no, nothing like the way I was when I first came home. You're very thorough."

"Not nearly, I haven't asked you about sex," John said, his eyes on the river.

Nightingale was kind enough to laugh. "Everything seems to be in working order, but I haven't field-tested the equipment in a very long time."

John laughed, too. "Any particular reason?"

"Many. But my generation did not consider celibacy an unacceptable lifestyle."

"If you continue to grow younger, your opinion about that may change as well."

"There are some eventualities that I refuse to consider in advance of needing to do so."

"Your apprentices are trying to fix you up, but they aren't quite sure how to go about it."

"I hope you will tell them I am perfectly capable of making my own arrangements."

"That's what I did tell them," John admitted. "But you sound like it's true. You are aware of AIDS? Other venereal disease? Safe sex?"

Nightingale laughed. "A couple of years after I left Oxford, they awarded the Nobel Prize for Medicine for a successful treatment for tertiary syphilis." He raised his eyebrows; John shook his head. "It involved inoculation with malaria; high fever killed off the spirochaetae. I imagine you must think it's a on level with bloodletting or the doctrine of signatures. But malaria was considered preferable to the need to wear a false nose, or to dying while raving mad."

John closed his mouth. "I forgot it was all so recent as that."

Nightingale smiled gently. "Not most people's definition of 'living memory'. But thank you for your concern." They walked on a ways. "I hope you will come to dinner again. I seem to remember guests being more frequent, once upon a time."

"I would like that," John said. "Your cook's very good, too."

Nightingale was pleased, he could tell. "I'll pass along your compliments," he promised. "And if anything comes up during your period of service to…" he nodded at the water, "that you would like advice or information about, please ask. My tradition may not be able to tell you anything useful-I cannot recall having heard of anyone offering his service to the River Thames-but Doctor Walid informs me an understanding ear can be very welcome. "

John thought briefly of Polly, who had a weakness for chivalry; of Greg who was far more realistic about service and dedication; but he couldn't imagine discussing the Rivers with them. "I know that Mother Thames isn't a tame lion by any means—" Nightingale's expression indicated John's quote had flown completely over his head—"Mostly harmless?—powerful, benign, and very very dangerous? But it feels right for now, and just being told I'm not completely mad is very welcome."

"I'm hardly a good judge of anyone's sanity," said Nightingale. "But it seems to me you're the better for having found something to go toward rather than heading away."


End file.
